


(Not A) Monster

by Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Branding, Disowned, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Food Poisoning, Framed, Healing, Infanticide, Killing, Loss of Powers, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Mutually Dubious Consent, Suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 47,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8552914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Damian has no warning when his world crashes down around him. Framed for a crime he didn't commit, disowned, his magic sealed within him, and cast into the prisons beneath his former family's palace. His only hope lies in escape, and finding his way to his father so he can join the resistance and, ideally, bring down his former grandfather. The only person who can help him do that is the prisoner in the cell across from him. Jason, a backlash freak-of-nature and an utter mystery.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So, this is a story I actually wrote for HC-Bingo. I decided to write a 25-in-1 story, which is taking all 25 prompts on the card and combining them into a single story. Yeah, it's crazy. It also _doesn't_ count as a 'real' bingo, so I decided fuck it, I'm not officially posting it as an HC-Bingo story. This damn thing is 9 chapters and 47k; it should count. (And yet...)
> 
> So, we're going to do prompts by chapter here. (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This one is home to: **Loss of Job, Branding, Mistaken Identity,** and **Assault.** (That 'Infanticide' tag is the best thing I could find to describe 'talking about the murder of an unborn child'.)

He hardly cares when Nyssa, his mother’s half-sister, slips back into their lives with a new husband and declares herself with child. There’s the thought in the back of his mind, of course, that if it turns out to be a boy he might have to deal with it in some way. He is his grandfather’s only current heir, but the thought of another does not particularly worry him. He is the eldest, and he has been trained to take over his grandfather’s empire for his whole life, what could one infant possibly do to threaten that, even if it is does have a — technically — more lawful birth?  


His mother may not have been married to his father, and may never have divulged exactly whose son he is to his grandfather, but Nyssa’s husband is no one of importance or recognition. There’s no advantage there.

Which is why it comes as an utter surprise when, two weeks after her arrival, he hears a commotion in the halls outside of his room. He’s barely closed his book before there are three guards bursting into his room, hands already moving in the curls of spells to release magic. It bursts to life within the moment, and he only has time to draw a breath and begin to drop the book to cast his own when the bursts of light crash into him, slamming him back against the headboard with enough force to make his world black out for a moment. By the time his senses return there are hands dragging him forward, and he feels cold metal click into place around his throat and upper arms in quick succession, and far too late to do anything about it.

He does manage to bite back the gasp as the hot core of his power gets shut off behind walls as cold as the engraved, enchanted, metal locked around him. It’s an awful, uncomfortable, _shocking_ feeling, but he holds back any response to it but to bare his teeth in a small snarl and pull against the guard’s holds, raising his head to look the one _not_ holding one of his arms straight in the eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands, making sure his voice comes out with an edge of steel and fire. "What do you think you are doing?"

The guard looks just a bit unnerved, but no one releases him, which simply means that he hasn't scared them enough yet. "The Emperor has demanded your arrest and presence before him, my lord. Bound."

Which is all the warning he gets before his arms are being pulled behind him, and heavy metal cuffs are locking into place around his wrists. Not magical this time, just plain metal, but with the other bindings locking away his power they may as well be inescapable. They're certainly tight enough that he won't be slipping them without the right tools, or a key.

The far more worrisome part of this is that his __grandfather has apparently ordered him arrested, and he cannot recall having _done_ anything. It would take a rather serious crime for his grandfather to order him, the singular heir to the kingdom apart from Nyssa's unborn child — assuming it is a boy — arrested and bound to be brought in for an audience. If he had done something wrong, his grandfather would have summoned him to a private meeting, and delivered some sort of suitable discipline. To bind and pull him in before an _audience_ suggests that he has done something terrible enough to condemn him in front of both court and family.

But he hasn't __done _anything_.

"Why?" he demands.

The guards pull him to the door instead of answering, dragging him down the corridor outside. Not that he is resisting, but they seem determined to drag him instead of simply guiding anyway. That is also worrisome; it implies that the guards know whatever reason it is that he is being brought before his grandfather, and are either secure enough to believe that he won't be retaliating for this treatment, or are disgusted by whatever his apparent crime is and simply do not care for consequences.

He clenches his jaw for a second, studying the guards to see if he can get anything off of them, since they seem unwilling to speak with him, and he has nothing better to do on this enforced trip to his grandfather. What he can see isn't encouraging; defensive and slightly repulsed body language, which is rather impressive for his grandfather's elite guard. Not much disgusts them, not after the kind of shows of loyalty it takes to become one of them.

The silence is not particularly new, so he simply weathers it as well as the guards' disrespect as he is taken across the palace and to the throne room his grandfather holds court in. The thread of unease in the center of his chest grows a little stronger when he's guided to the larger, main entrance with its imposing, heavy double doors, and not one of the veiled side entrances that family usually enters by. Still, he holds his tongue and doesn't speak as the third guard pushes the doors open, and then he is pushed through.

It's late, past dark, but there's still quite a large collection of nobles and court members here. He can feel their gazes on him, and they're easier to read than the guards escorting him. Fear, hatred, revulsion…

He raises his gaze to the throne itself as he's pushed towards it, looking for some clue of what's happened. His grandfather is sitting in that throne, leaning to one side, and the expression on that face is one of steel and ice. Nothing good. His mother is standing to the left of that throne, and she's the same steel, though he can read the worry in her eyes probably better than anyone else in the room apart from his grandfather. To the right is Nyssa, sitting with her husband standing at her shoulder, and there is _fury_ on his face, and a sort of pained fury on hers. She's pale, and— and her clothing is stained with blood, quite a bit of it, though the origin is hidden underneath the arms she has crossed over her stomach.

An idea of what this might be starts to grow in the back of his mind.

He's pushed to his knees at the foot of the short flight of stairs leading up to the throne, and the guards step back to leave him relatively alone as he bows his head for a moment. The whispers of the court, behind him, grow, and though he can't quite make out what they're saying, the emotion behind the words is much easier. Shock. Anger. _Fear_.

"Silence," his grandfather commands, and the room quiets in a heartbeat.

He raises his head, making sure his shoulders are straight and not an inch of his uncertainty is showing. "Grandfather," he says into the silence, "I would appreciate an explanation for this."

As much as he wants to, he doesn't pull against the cuffs locked around his wrists. This is not the place to betray weakness or fear, and if his grandfather has ordered him bound, he refuses to fight that. There's no quicker way to anger his grandfather than attempting to disobey orders or test the limits of them. He doubts this would be a good time to risk that anger.

Nyssa jerks, teeth showing and for a moment she looks _wild_ , before his grandfather raises a hand and stills her. Mostly.

"Damian," his grandfather starts, voice low and completely matching the steel and ice of his expression, "you have been accused of attacking Nyssa, resulting in the loss of her child."

His gaze snaps to Nyssa, to the blood on her clothes and the fury and the _grief_ in her gaze, and it feels like his blood freezes in his veins. His lungs constrict around the breath in him, and he has to fight not to let his eyes widen or the sudden fear in his chest show. Assaulting a family member, killing her unborn child, and getting _caught_ at it would certainly be enough to get him dragged before the court for a shortened version of a trial. The punishment for that would be…

Except that he didn't _do_ that.

"Do you have anything to say to that?" his grandfather demands.

He draws his gaze back, makes sure that his head is held high, and gathers enough confidence to answer, "I did not do this, Grandfather. Nyssa's—”

" _Liar_ ," she spits, and her voice is an ugly, broken, raging thing. "I broke your glamour, Nephew, I _broke it!_ It was _you!_ " Her voice rises, until his grandfather flicks a hand again in a command for silence.

His mother is very still, ramrod straight and wearing that mask of steel. He does his very best to imitate that himself, and not betray any of the rest of what he's feeling. Something here is very wrong. Nyssa's child is dead, apparently as an intended target, and the blame is falling on _him_. She claims that she saw him, that she broke a glamour — implying that he had disguised himself as someone else — which either means that someone is _very_ good at glamours and could make it look like one broke to reveal him, or…

Or she's lying.

 _That_ worrying thought brings up the question, is this on purpose, or is she taking advantage of someone else's attack to frame him? It's not exactly a secret — at least among their family — that Nyssa would like him removed from the line of succession. But would she really be ruthless enough to kill her own unborn child to frame him for it, to get him out of the way?

It unnerves him a bit that he can't quite bring himself to say _no_ to that theory.

His grandfather's hand flicks down at him, gesturing for him to continue, and he draws his gaze up to meet those green eyes squarely. "Nyssa's child was no threat to me," he says plainly. "Even if it had been male, an _infant_ would be no threat to my position, Grandfather. I am not certain what exactly the details are of what I am supposed to have done," he glances over at Nyssa, "but frankly I am not _stupid_ enough to risk so much to get rid of such a small irritation, and if I made such plans I would not be foolish enough to get caught."

He bites back the urge to add that an assault is a very messy form of murder, especially with such an obvious eyewitness, and that poisoning Nyssa to kill the child in her would have been much more efficient and cleaner. While he's sure that his grandfather would appreciate the practicality of that, the court would not. He's known to be dangerous, and ruthless, but not _that_ sort of ruthless. Making clear that you can kill a man before he blinks is very different from saying that you'd poison a mother to kill her child.

His grandfather frowns just a touch as the court bursts back into whispers, and then looks to Nyssa. "Describe the attack."

Nyssa shivers — her husband's hand clenches down on her shoulder — and then gives a small nod, gaze lowered to the floor. "I was headed to my quarters. A guard approached me, saying I'd been summoned to speak with you, Father, so I turned back to accompany him. He waited until I was close and then put a knife in my stomach. He— He tried to do it again, but I cast and knocked him away. It was instinctual; I lashed out with my power, and in his efforts to put up a shield the glamour he was using shattered."

Her gaze rises from the floor, slow, damning, focusing on him.

"It was _Damian_. He ran; left me to bleed out. I managed to— to get far enough to find you, Father. The healers saved me, but my child…” A sound comes from her throat, something broken and grieving, as her head falls and her shoulders curl inwards. "My child is _dead_."

The unease curls larger as he realizes she absolutely, without question, has the sympathy and support of every member of the court. He can tell by the sound of their whispering. He's the enemy in this room.

His grandfather's gaze is hard when it comes back to him. "Damian, where have you been for the last few hours?"

The realization comes sharp as a punch. "In my room," he answers honestly, _uselessly_. "Reading."

"Alone?" He confirms the question with a small nod, and the slight frown on his grandfather's face gets a touch deeper. "Damian, do you have any defense at all?"

He stalls, mind whirring and trying to figure out _something_ he could use to prove his innocence. Nothing comes to mind. "Only to repeat what I have already said," he says, and then decides in a flash that he's not going to pander to the court, not when the alternative is being convicted of this. "I did not do this. It sounds poorly thought out and there would have been far easier and more efficient ways to kill an unborn child, Grandfather. Poison, for one. If I did plan to murder a child, and for some reason a clumsy attack like what I am being blamed for was the only way, I would not be enough of a fool to do it _myself_. I cannot say what did occur but I can say that it was not _me_."

Judging by his grandfather's expression, that's not enough.

Especially not when Nyssa looks up and all but snarls, "I want him _dead_ , Father. Justice and vengeance for the life he took."

His mother takes a sharp step forward, moving for the first time, and snaps, "You will _not_ kill my child, Nyssa!"

"But he can kill mine?!"

" _Enough_ ," his grandfather snaps. "It is a serious crime, but the decision is _mine_."

Both of them settle back, and he loses the battle and swallows, trying to hold the gaze of his grandfather without revealing how much he's starting to worry. Murder of a family member, no alibi, and Nyssa sitting there with bloodstained clothes and playing every ounce for pity and sympathy? There aren't many ways that this could go well. His position shields him somewhat, but not from something like this.

Silence — apart from the court's whispering — for a long stretch of time, where the seconds drag, before his grandfather suddenly pushes up and stands from the throne. Those green eyes are cold, and from his peripherals he watches Nyssa's husband help her stand, listens to the whole court grow silent in preparation for his grandfather to deliver his sentence, whatever it is.

"Damian, I find you guilty of the murder of Nyssa's child." He holds his breath, watching his grandfather stare down at him with that frown. "You are disowned. I strip you of the name al Ghul, and strike you from all record of our family tree." His blood runs cold, and his world tunnels as his eyes widen. "Given the situation, your magic will also be sealed from you, so that you are no longer a threat to anyone of this family and will _never_ challenge it. Guards; take him to the dungeons and brand him. He'll be released once he's recovered enough to travel."

He hears the movement, but it's only once he's been wrenched to his feet that he finds the voice to cry, "Grandfather! I _did not do this!_ "

His mother looks stricken, stunned, and there's a sharp gleam of victory on Nyssa's face, but his grandfather's expression is fixed in the kind of dangerous, blank mask used on court members who haven’t learned to keep their mouths shut. That expression has certainly never been aimed at _him_.

"I witnessed the glamour break myself, Damian, and you are _not_ my grandson any longer.” A hint of a sneer, and his grandfather’s voice lowers to say, slow and clear, “Make that mistake again and you will spend a much longer time in my dungeon than a mere week."

One hand flicks, and the guards start to drag him from the room. He wants to protest, to shout, to _beg_ that this not happen, but there's no chance of his grandfather reversing what's already been decided. His fate is sealed, as his magic will be, and that is a fact set in stone that he cannot hope to break, not without evidence or an alibi he doesn't have.

Nyssa's certainly gotten what she wanted, because this _has_ to have been planned. It would take masterful timing for someone to make the casting of a glamour look like the breaking of another, and to fool his grandfather into actually believing it. This is the plan of someone ruthless, powerful, and skilled, or at least someone with minions or hired mercenaries that have those traits. Certainly worthy of his family, and it would be something that would impress him, if he wasn't the target. As it is, any hint of being impressed is drowned underneath the fear eating its way up his throat.

Being disowned is one thing; he could recover from that. He has other connections, he's been trained and taught all his life to lead and to survive, and he could have created a life away from the rest of his family. Having his promised inheritance wrenched from him is frustrating, but it wouldn't have been enough to end him. He has power, skill, and ruthlessness himself, and he could have ripped the title from Nyssa's child if he had to.

However, having his power sealed is _permanent_ , and it will mark him as a serious criminal. The brands can be hidden, with work, but the combination of that as well as the fact that his face is fairly well known ruins all chance of him having a life anywhere but far outside the boundaries of his grandfather's empire. The sealing of his magic won't quite make him helpless, but it will put him at a disadvantage against everyone else with enough power and the training to use it as a weapon, which is a fair portion of the world.

Sealing a criminal's power is _very_ rare, because at that point, why not simply kill the offender and get it over with? Even imprisoned criminals generally have their power bound with the sort of restraints currently around his throat and arms, not permanently sealed.

Approaching the dungeons has never scared him like it does now, but then, he's never been convicted of murder before either. He's been down in these cells to study prisoners, or be trained in interrogation or torture, or such similar lessons, but he's never been brought down here to be _punished_. The discipline he's earned over the years has always been relatively minor, and nothing that ever required a cell. His mother would never have allowed things to become this serious if there were any other option.

He stays obedient as he's pulled inside, making sure not to struggle because he's only going to get one single shot at any kind of resistance. His legs aren't bound, at least, and he's been trained to fight since he was a child. Three guards is not necessarily a problem, if he can get this right. A fourth joining them — the current guard stationed in the dungeon, with the keys — makes it a little trickier. If he can get a hold of the keys, that frees him from the cuffs and gets him out of here, but usually guards set primarily in the dungeons are the ones specifically talented in restraining magic, in case of any attempts at escape. Four is pushing the limits of what he can handle too, especially without his own magic.

One of the original guards stays at the front of the dungeon as the others guide him towards the back of the row of cells, past other occupied ones and then a long row of empty ones on either side. He's dragged inside the very last one on the right, and pushed down to his knees in the center of the room. He stays utterly still — both to lure them into false security and for the safety of his own skin — as one of them draws a knife and sets to work slicing apart the thin fabric of the sleeveless shirt he'd been wearing before all of this even began.

Distantly, he recognizes that this is in preparation to brand him. Sealing requires a complicated set of runes on both the chest and back, backed up with magic to make them permanent, so simply taking a knife to change them won't do anything. They'll need his chest bare, and if he remembers the size of the branding iron correctly — he hasn't seen it in many years — part of it will stretch onto the backs of his shoulders, so his wrists will need to be freed at some point so that they can make sure that the brand is applied cleanly.

That will be the only chance he has. The moment where his wrists are free, before they're restrained in some other way, will be the only time that he'll have a chance of escaping. It's a shame that they know that too. If it's possible, it will be very hard.

The shirt falls away from him, and he hears the approaching clatter of metal, managing to turn his head just enough to catch a glimpse of that fourth guard returning, holding two brands in one arm, slipping through the open door of the cell. He's pulled to his feet, and metal brushes against the skin of one of his wrists. He tries not to betray reaction as hands close hard around his arms, and then there's the metallic click of the cuffs on his wrists coming off.

He jerks into action, lunging forward to drag the guards holding him as he twists and kicks a foot backwards. He hits solid flesh, and hears the grunt of pain and the impact of that dungeon-guard against the cell's bars. They yank at his arms, dragging them up and off to the sides, hands as unyielding as the steel they just took off of him. He pulls, tries to kick, but these are his grandfather's elite guard and they are at least skilled enough to dodge what he's capable of doing while held like this.

One of the two guards behind him kicks the back of his knee at the same time the two holding him twist his arms to force him down, and he curses, struggles, but it's not enough to stop them from slamming him down against the floor and pinning him there. Heavy weight settles across the back of his legs as well, but that's all the warning that he gets before metal presses firmly against his back.

For a moment it feels shockingly _cold_ , like patterns of ice from his shoulders to midway down his back.

Then the pain hits, the sizzle of his own skin reaches his ears and nose, and he _screams_. He's held too firmly to do any more than twist his head and grit his teeth, eyes wide and every instinct telling him to run, to escape, to _get away_. It's _agony_ on a level he hasn't felt before, and he loses track of exactly what else is happening around him. The sole focus of his world is the pain of his back, and he can only struggle to breathe and try in vain to endure it.

He doesn't know when the brand is pulled away, only that suddenly he's being pulled to his feet, hanging almost entirely limp in the grip of too many hands and being carried backwards. Metal closes around his wrists again, and then his back is pressed to metal and he gasps, jerking and crying out. It doesn't stop them, and it takes him too long to realize that he's being restrained against the metal bars of the cell, held up and back by hands on his arms.

It takes him even longer to remember that there's a second brand, and _that_ drags his eyes open. The sight of one of the guards standing in front of him, holding the handle of the brand in one hand and heating it with the other — fingers conjuring flame — is enough to get him to struggle again, not that it does anything. His breath comes ragged, fast, and there is a complete _lack_ of pity in the guard's gaze when he steps forward. The brand is glowing, and he gives a wordless, high sound of fear and protest as it's held up.

Then it's pressing against his chest, held still despite his fighting. There's the same moment of cold before the pain. He can't help screaming again, back arching what little it's allowed and his head flinging back and cracking into one of the bars. It feels like it should help, being partially stunned, but it doesn't.

The moment he's released he collapses, sliding down the bars to the floor. His wrists are still tied to the metal, arms spread wide, but with no one holding him he's leaned forward, and that at least gets his back away from it. His head hangs, gaze aimed blindly at the floor, washes of cold sliding over him like little douses of ice water, and underneath it all there's just the _pain_.

Hands touch his arms, then his throat, and dimly he realizes that the magical restraints are being taken off. He waits for half a moment out of a useless hope that his magic will return, but he feels as hollow and cold as before.

The door shuts, and he fades from consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 2! (A belated happy Thanksgiving, to my American followers; hope your day was great!) I was going to post something else, but honestly it was a oneshot and I would have had to put together the tags and everything, and I just didn't have the energy to put into it. So you get this instead; oneshot next time. Enjoy!
> 
> (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This chapter is home to: **Dungeons** and **Mutation.**

He has no clue how long he is unconscious, only that when he does regain some level of consciousness it is a half-life, aware enough to register the pain written into his bones and the vague presence of others, but no more. He is fairly certain no one directly touches or speaks to him, but that could be incorrect.

At some point he feels the tingle of magic down his spine, and the sensation is enough of a shock to drag him to consciousness again. He starts, and then hisses pain as that sends ice and fire cascading over his torso in waves. Fingers touch his cheek, sliding over his skin, and he opens his eyes with some difficulty, looking up.

“Mother?” he whispers, his voice coming out rough in the familiar way of someone who’s damaged their throat screaming. He does not recall ever having heard that tone from himself, though he has from many other people.

His mother’s fingers cup his cheek, thumb brushing over it with a tenderness he has not felt in… Not since he was a child.

“Oh, my son,” she murmurs back, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

His breath catches, and he can’t help saying, “I didn’t do this. Mother, you _know_ I wouldn’t—”

“Hush.” There’s pain in her eyes, again more obvious than he has seen in a very long time, and her hand leaves his cheek and moves down his arm. He hears the rattle of keys, and his wrist comes free of the cuff. A moment, and then she’s freed the other one as well. “What you did or did not do no longer matters, Damian. It is too late for that.”

All of it comes back in a sickening rush. The brands, the pain, the— the _permanent_ removal of his magic. He shudders and she gathers him into her arms, carefully not touching his wounds even as she holds him, guiding his head to rest at her shoulder. He closes his eyes, feels the threatening prickle of tears but _refuses_ to let them fall. He may have been framed, he may have been crippled, but he is not _weak_. Not even now.

“What now?” he asks against her shoulder, keeping his voice as low as he can manage it and still believe she has a chance of hearing. If he knows his mother at _all_ , he knows she has some form of plan. At the very least, a next step.

She runs her fingers through his hair, tilting, and speaks directly into his ear, barely above a breath. “You must escape. My sister is not satisfied with imprisoning you, she plans to have you killed while you are still locked down here. I have the key; get out however you must.”

He feels the press of metal against his side, slipping down and then tucked beneath the fold of his thigh. It occurs to him that his mother is _not_ playing; the punishment she’d invite if caught with that key, let alone giving it to him, is terrible to even consider. His gra— Ra’s’ wrath is not a thing that should be challenged.

He shivers, and then finds the breath to say, “Mother, I am in _no_ condition to attempt any kind of escape. I have nowhere to _go_.”

“Go to your father,” she whispers. “He may be a fool but he will keep you safe. As for the rest…” She pauses, and then carefully presses a kiss to his temple and breathes, “There is a man in the cell across from you; convince him to join your escape and use him to leave this place, my son. As soon as you can.”

“If I cannot?” he dares to ask. The thought is not a welcome one, but it is a realistic one. He is injured, he’s been publicly branded as one of the worst kind of criminals, and his hopes of convincing some other criminal are probably not all that high. Even apart from the fact that whoever is in that cell they are _also_ a criminal, and one actually guilty of whatever crime they were sentenced for, presumably.

His mother holds him a bit tighter. “I will do my best to protect you,” she promises, and then pulls away. Her voice rises as she stands. “I will have someone sent down to treat you, Damian. Get some rest, my son.”

He doesn't try to answer, isn't even sure what he would say if he tried and the weight of the key is heavy beneath his thigh. He attempts to just breathe, and not watch as his mother leaves the cell and it shuts behind her with the heavy thud and clunk of a lock he couldn't normally escape. Escape is a tempting thought, but he's just not sure… There are too many variables, too many things that could go wrong. If he is caught trying to escape, he will be put to death, he has no illusions there. However, he also believes his mother's information. If she has reason to believe that Nyssa intends to kill him, then it is more than likely true. So he _must_ go.

Then the first step is as his mother suggested: convince whoever is in that other cell to aid him in his escape.

Carefully, and slowly, he shifts away from the bars of his cell enough to turn around. He keeps the key held between his thigh and calf, and that takes enough of his attention, along with managing the agony of how any movement pulls at his new brands, that when he’s turned around he ends up leaning against the bars with his eyes squeezed shut and his breath coming hard. It takes him too long to open his eyes again, and then raise his gaze to the cell across the way.

The man in it is lying on the cot provided, back to the wall and a book in his hands, ignoring him. His gaze slips from the engraved metal restraints around the man’s upper arms and throat, then up to the white shock of hair hanging above the left side of his forehead.

 _Backlash_.

He almost recoils, if it weren’t for the fact that the second he tenses _pain_ sings through his nerves. He slumps a little more against the bars, squeezing his eyes shut for another moment as he tries to think _why_ his mother would possibly believe the abomination across from him could be persuaded to help him escape.

Backlashes are violent, dangerous, unstable creatures with too much power and little to no control over it; they _belong_ in cells like these. That, or buried beneath the ground where they can do no harm to anyone else. There have been cases of entire villages falling to these abominations and their inability to control the magic they’re born with, and hundreds of deaths and injuries caused by them. That much power should only be in the hands of someone trained to control it, and backlashes _cannot_ learn.

Then again, this backlash does seem to be the only other prisoner close enough to speak with at a volume that no guards will hear, and magical ineptitude aside, he certainly looks like a physically strong candidate. He has on a simple black vest and loose pants for clothing, comfortable but simple enough that it’s unlikely he’ll have any kind of weapons stored within them, and it leaves on display the hard muscle of his arms and some of his chest. If the backlash has any sort of actual combat training, he could be fairly useful. Even if the prisoner doesn’t, he’s large and strong enough to function as a shield.

He does not recall ever having heard of this particular prisoner before, but given the small collection of books inside the cell, and the distinctly ‘lived in’ appearance, he finds it likely that the man has been here awhile.

“Is there a reason you’re staring?” the backlash suddenly asks, blue-green eyes flicking up to pin him to his spot.

“There is not much else to look at,” he points out, and wishes his voice did not sound quite as weak as it does.

The backlash’s mouth curls into a small snarl. “ _Find_ something else; I’m not your freak show.”

He longs to snap back, but practicality wins over desire. “We are neighbors,” he says instead, “should we not make some attempt at knowing each other?”

He gets a snort, and the backlash’s gaze drops back to the book as he flicks to the next page. “Why? You’ll be out of here soon enough, and I’ll still be locked in; why the fuck should I care about getting to know you before then?”

“How do you know that?” he demands, mind stalling out on the fact that this prisoner somehow knows what’s to be done with him.

At least, that’s what he thinks until the man looks up, pinning him with a look that implies he’s an absolute moron. “You don’t brand someone and then just leave them sitting in a dungeon; there’s no point. Branding’s tricky and restraints—” he nods towards the cuff around one upper arm “—work just as well. You got any other stupid questions?”

As it happens… “Do you not simply wish to talk, to ease the silence?”

The backlash’s gaze flickers off to the side, pain showing for just a fraction of a second before it shutters away and the man’s gaze falls to the book again. “If you don’t get used to conversation, you can’t miss it. I’ve been doing pretty good about not getting used to it so far, thanks. Wouldn’t want to break the streak.”

He pauses for a moment, trying to make his exhausted brain work well enough to think of a way to convince the man he’s worth listening to, _without_ playing his entire hand right away. Whoever this is, he’s clearly fairly accustomed to life down here, and he’s behaved well enough that the guards have given him extra bits of comfort to encourage that. Books, fairly clean clothes, and what looks like an extra blanket. That’s in addition to the fact that the man is clean shaven, apart from some faint stubble, and has a fairly neat hairstyle. He can’t decide which is more unlikely, that the guards gave the man a blade to shave with, or that they’re doing it for him.

He taps his fingers against the bars of the cell, twists his head to look as far down the corridor outside as he can to reassure himself there is no one else within earshot. As far as he can see, they’re alone.

“What if I could ensure that you would not need to grow reaccustomed to silence?” he says, probably just loud enough for the man to hear.

That gets those blue-green eyes to rise again, looking at him over the top of the book. There’s a sharp kind of interest to his expression, but the man’s voice is guarded and low when he answers, “I was getting the impression you didn’t have any kind of power here anymore, Damian al Ghul.” His eyes must widen a little bit, because the backlash snorts. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

“Were,” he corrects, reluctantly. “I was stripped of my title and family.”

“Does it still count as a royal fuck up if you’re not royalty anymore?” the backlash says, with a vicious kind of satisfaction to his words. “Or did you just commonly fuck up? Must have done something pretty unforgivable, for you to get branded and sealed. I bet that name you don’t have is the only reason you’re still breathing.”

He grits his teeth, wanting to rise to the provocation, to protest his innocence, to _snarl_ at the man that he is anything but common, but he forces himself to swallow it away. The man, however rude, however cruel, however much of a _freak_ of nature, is his only current way out of here. He has to control himself, or risk losing that way out. There’s no way he can escape this dungeon with the agony that moving currently causes him; he _needs_ someone strong enough to help.

“What I have or have not done is of no importance,” he manages to say, with only a little bit of his irritation leaking into his words. “If you are interested in that promise, I can fulfill it. In exchange for some assistance.”

The man flips the page of his book, still watching him. “Might be. What sort?”

“Nothing more than a little physical work.” He forces himself to straighten up a bit from the bars, to reach down and slip the key out from underneath his thigh, flashing just enough of it to watch the man’s gaze sharpen. “I know the palace, I know the surrounding area.”

“I know the cells,” the backlash counters. “Underneath the back right corner of the cot there’s a loose stone; put that away before you get caught with it.”

He looks back into his cell, across the rough stone floor and the distance of what feels a bit like miles, given how much pain moving currently causes him. The thought of attempting to drag himself over there, pull up the cot, and pry loose whatever stone is out of place is… daunting. It may just be a symptom of his injuries, but there is a crazier idea taking hold in his mind. Risky, perhaps, but certainly far less painful, and perhaps even just the edge needed to push the backlash across from him to really agree to help.

He turns back to the other man, twists to peer as far down the corridor as he can and confirm no one is within sight, and then takes just half a moment to breathe in and brace himself. Then, before he can talk himself out of it again, he judges the distance and throws the key across the corridor and through the bars of the backlash’s cell. The motion _hurts_ , but his aim is true.

The man jerks, reaches out and snatches the key from the air as if on automatic, before staring down at it in shock. “Are you _insane?_ ” the man hisses, quickly pushing the key down beneath the nearly flat pillow he has.

He manages something like a smirk, letting himself rest against the bars again. “It is in your hands now, neighbor. Whatever you choose to do.”

The man glares at him, snapping the book shut and getting off the bed in a fluid slide of movement. “Why do I even need you then?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Unless you somehow have intimate knowledge of the palace’s guard schedules and layout, you will never make it past the walls. I know ways out that even the guards do not know; I know how to slip past them.”

A harsh snort, before the backlash scrapes a hand back through his own hair with clear frustration. “Fuck, you _are_ insane.” Blue-green eyes look back down at him, sharp and considering, before there’s a second snort. “You’re also probably right. Alright, Damian; when?”

“As soon as is feasible,” he answers, “when the opportunity arises.” The man shakes his head, turns away and paces to the other side of the cell, and it finally occurs to him to ask, “What is your name?”

The man stops, facing away from him, and is silent for a long moment. Then he says over his shoulder, “Jason.”

Manners somehow make it to the forefront of his mind despite his exhaustion, and the pain present in every breath and twitch. “It is good to meet you, Jason.”

“Liar,” the backlash says, voice even quieter for a moment. Then Jason turns around, looking at him head on once again. “Why are you trying to get out? You’ll be released sometime soon anyway; isn’t that good enough? Why take all this risk? Why even _involve_ me?”

“I have been informed that my aunt is going to attempt to have me murdered while I am trapped down here. Understandably, I would rather avoid that, so I cannot afford to wait until I am healed and released. As—” He has to pause, swallow and look down at the stone beneath them. “As _unpleasant_ as this new life may turn out to be, it is still preferable to being dead.”

Another moment of silence, before an almost inaudible, “Yeah, been there.” He looks up, but whatever Jason was feeling it’s been locked away behind a mask that is equal parts steel and anger. “Your mother had the right idea, you know. Get some rest. I don’t want you completely useless when this actually happens.”

He turns his head to look at the cot again, winces, and then takes a moment to brace himself before he painstakingly starts to move towards it. Even crawling is difficult, and that is about as far as he can go; standing would take more strength than he is currently capable of. It takes him far longer than he would like, but he does eventually reach the cot. Though the brands give him little choice but to lie carefully along one side, which is not entirely comfortable even without the fact that he is still in so much pain; worse, now that he’s aggravated it by moving.

He still refuses to waste thoughts on wishing for anything better. He has not yet sunk that low.

* * *

Despite the pain, his exhaustion makes it easy to sleep, even if it is fitful. He does not know how much time passes before he’s fully woken again, by the servant sent down to treat the brands, but he does feel moderately better afterwards. He’s wary of the servant, and even more wary of the mixture of herbs she wants him to eat to help deal with the pain, until she leans in and says one of the specific phrases his mother and he have agreed upon to signify trust. Then he submits to the treatment, and eats the herbs without complaint even though they are painfully bitter upon his tongue.

With the possibility of glamours, even as well as both of them are trained, it is difficult to be too careful.

He keeps his gaze away from Jason’s cell, apart from occasional glances that confirm that the backlash is lying still on his cot, sleeping as far as he can tell. If the servant questions those glances, she doesn’t say anything. In fact, she doesn’t say much of anything to him, apart from what’s necessary. She wraps his chest, back, and the affected parts of his shoulders with bandages, and by the time she’s finished the herbs have just started to take effect. He appreciates the faint numbness that eases the pain, but less so the bit of drowsiness that comes with it.

She leaves without a word, and he doesn’t attempt to make her speak. It’s quiet, and out of lack of anything better to do — given the fact that Jason is sleeping — he moves back over to his cot and attempts to get a bit more rest. He’s going to need every inch of energy he can manage, if he wishes to escape these dungeons as well as get away from the inevitable hunt that will follow.

His father is… It will be safe, he trusts his mother on that despite never having met the man, but it is a long journey to get to where his mother has previously told him that his father lives. A long, difficult journey, and the chance he will be greeted kindly at first is negligible.

He does not believe his father even knows that they are related; his mother kept the information as contained as possible. She only told him because she thought he may need to know someday, be that to use as a weapon or to seek sanctuary. The latter was vastly more unlikely, and yet here he is preparing to do just that.

Bruce Wayne, leader of the rebels, who vex his former grandfather at every turn. Smaller things mostly, supplies stolen and redistributed without a trace, armies sabotaged, hundreds of small acts of defiance that tax his resources and his patience. He’s learned quite a bit about them, but the knowledge has always sat heavy in his head that he _knew_ where they were based, and the withholding of that information was one of the only things that stood between them and their destruction.

He’s considered giving that information a hundred times, but never did. Now, he’s thankful for that.

He’s eventually woken by footsteps, heavy and confident, and slides his eyes open before he considers moving. It’s two guards, and both of them go to Jason’s cell and unlock it. One is carrying a couple things he can’t quite see, and Jason is already standing, hands held open and to the sides and a small, crooked grin on his face.

“Hey, guys.”

Jason spins in a slow circle without prompting, and then sinks down to his knees, hands coming up to lace behind his neck. One guard grips those laced together hands, as the one carrying the things sets them down in front of Jason and then steps back. It’s a bit strange to realize that it’s everything necessary to shave; a mirror, water in a small bowl, and a small blade. His heart jumps a bit, and he pushes up from his cot to watch.

The guard holding Jason’s hands lets go, stepping back, and Jason settles more firmly back on his feet and reaches down to angle the mirror a bit better. “How’s your wife?” Jason asks, with a glance up towards the guard in front of him and that same grin.

To his surprise, the guard answers, “Good. She just got a job inside the palace, we’re getting quarters in here too.”

“Nice,” Jason comments, picking up the blade and dipping it into the water. The backlash’s gaze slips past the guard, to him, and the grin slips for a second. “Did you have to give me a neighbor?”

The guard twists, looking back at him, and he sees Jason’s fingers curl more firmly around the blade’s hilt. “He’ll be gone soon en—”

Jason is _fast_ , standing and spinning in a single movement, and the distance is judged _perfectly_ because the blade goes right across the second guard’s throat and he’s still turning, going after the guard just starting to turn back towards him. There’s half a moment of panic, the start of hand gestures as the guard jerks away and tries to cast all at the same time, but it’s too late to stop Jason. The blade sinks home beneath the guard’s chin, and he thinks he’s about to have to join Jason in running for their lives. Someone will _hear_.

But then Jason’s head turns, other hand lashing out and grabbing the front of the uniform of the guard still bleeding out before he can fall. The hand holding the blade lets go, grabs the same on the other guard, and then Jason slowly, carefully, sinks down and lays both guards on the floor with hardly a sound. He stares, sort of shocked at the sheer _effectiveness_ of it, at how precisely it was all done. Distracting the guards with him to start with, and then the grace of the actual strike, and finally ensuring that neither guard fell and made enough noise to alert any others. Not to mention the _strength_ it takes to hold the dead weight of a person with a single arm.

Jason calmly removes the blade, wiping it off and then pilfering the keys from one guard’s belt, fingers linked between them to make sure they don’t rattle. “Guess I don’t need your key,” comes the comment, as Jason tugs the boots off the guards, looking entirely unaffected by the deaths. “You ready to get out of here?”

He pushes up off of his cot, standing as Jason tugs on one pair of boots and then backtracks to grab a bundle of cloth that looks like a spare version of the top he’s wearing. That gets tucked underneath his arm along with the second pair of boots, before he heads for the door of the cell, circling around the two bodies on the floor, and the accompanying pools slowly forming around them.

“Could you have done that at any time?” he asks quietly, as Jason unlocks the cell door and slips out, taking one glance down the corridor before crossing to his cell.

“Yes,” Jason answers plainly, opening his door. “No reason to. Might not have gotten out of the city in time, and it’s not so bad in here.” Jason slips into his cell, handing him the second pair of boots and the shirt. “Here.”

The boots are a bit loose, and the shirt is _definitely_ loose — he does not often feel _small_ next to people, not since his growth spurt left him just under six feet tall — but does not threaten to fall off of him, so it is good enough. It exposes more of his bandages than he is comfortable with, but until they get a chance to find more suitable clothing this will have to do. He laces the boots as tightly as he can to ensure they won’t hinder any attempt to run, and then Jason wordlessly grips his arm and pulls him back to his feet, apparently not willing to wait for him to more slowly rise.

“I’m assuming we have to get out of this place before we can use any of your secret exits?” is the next question, as Jason’s fingers linger on his arm as if ready to steady him. He does not appreciate the silent comment on his current weakness, but that does not mean that Jason is wrong about it, though he will certainly not be saying that outloud.

“That is correct,” he admits. “We will need to leave the dungeons.”

“Could be worse,” Jason breathes, mostly to himself. “Two guards here, two at the entrance. They come down here at the start of their shift; we’ve got about five minutes before the others think something might be wrong, and a couple hours after that before anyone is supposed to come down here; that’ll be breakfast. That enough time for you to get us far enough away?”

“That shall work fine.” Jason steps away from him, crosses back over to the other cell and crouches down by the two guards, reaching out to pat them down for other weapons. He gets to the door of his cell, looking down the corridor — no one in sight; they’re in the depths, around a corner from the entrance to the dungeon — before grudgingly admitting, “I will be of little physical help.”

“Never would have guessed,” Jason says, with a snort. He scowls, as Jason stands up holding two longer knives, apparently having decided to forgo both the swords as well as the original, smaller knife. One blade gets raised, flipped into the air and caught again. “Stay behind me; I’ll handle the guards.”

Jason comes back out as he does, heading out of the dungeon on careful, nearly silent footsteps. He follows, studying the way Jason moves with both confusion and a reluctant kind of respect. It’s practiced, skilled. Perhaps… Perhaps he should have questioned exactly who his mystery neighbor was before offering this way out. Then again, what does he care what it is that he unleashes on this kingdom, as long as he is not caught in the wake of it?

Jason slows towards the end of the corridor, crouching low and peeking around just the very edge of it. Then, in the next breath, he’s edging farther and then _bursting_ into motion. Around the corner and _gone_ , and he speeds up as much as he can manage to get to the corner and step around it. Jason’s halfway down it, and the guards at the far table are jerking to their feet, already casting. He sucks a sharp breath in at the bursts of light made solid, almost silver in color, and how they lash out towards Jason’s sprinting form.

For a moment it looks certain that they’ll hit, and then Jason is sliding down, legs going out from under him and he _skids_ beneath the light, one arm snapping out and throwing a blade that finds a home in the eye of the guard on the right. Like with the two in the cell Jason’s still moving, pushing up on his other arm and getting back to his feet, slowing for just a moment as he rebalances before he’s lunging again. The remaining guard snarls, casting with one hand while drawing an almost identical knife with the other, and then Jason’s crashing into him. The knives clash with a ring of metal, and Jason’s shoulder slams into the guard’s chest, knocking him back a few steps.

He _almost_ thinks that the guard’s cast is going to go off in time, until Jason winds up and _slams_ a forward kick into the man’s gut. There’s a rush of expelled air, the guard crashes back into the table, and the almost-completed cast fizzles out with a faint spark from the man’s fingertips.

Jason pushes forward, batting aside the desperate slash of the knife at his head like it’s nothing — bad angle, not much force behind the strike anyway — before slashing open the guard’s throat. He steps back, lets the guard’s own weight send him sliding to the floor as he chokes, fingers releasing the knife.

By the time he’s gotten down the corridor Jason is collecting knives, stealing the belt off one guard and buckling it around his own waist, along with the sheath and sword hanging on one side. There’s a spot for one knife too, and he puts that away and keeps a second held in his hand. He draws even, looking at the guards — the one with the cut throat will be alive for minutes longer, if that — and then back at Jason.

“I was not aware I had freed some sort of… assassin.”

Jason snorts, crossing to the exit and pressing an ear to it, eyes closing. “What, you thought I was just going to be some kind of meat shield or something?”

He leans down, pilfering one of the knives for his own use since he has no desire to be entirely defenseless, even if his options are very limited. “The thought crossed my mind,” he admits. “Where did you learn any of this? There cannot have been many who would teach…” He trails off, unable to quite think of a way to phrase the end of that sentence without it being an insult.

Jason’s eyes open but they’re narrowed as they look back at him, his accomplice’s mouth set in a thin line. “Go on. _Backlash_ , that’s the word you were looking for, right? You’re right, there weren’t, and yet here I am.” Jason snorts again, turning back to the door. “You think I care about your words?”

He chews over that for a moment, as he crosses the room to Jason, and then answers, “No. I imagine you would not be alive if you were not used to the disgust and fear of others by now; I am not certain I have ever seen a backlash as old as you before.”

Jason grunts, and then pushes the door open. A look in either direction, before he’s being beckoned forward. “Your turn, Damian. Get us out of here.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! I am... very tired so I don't have much to say, but like... enjoy? I'll see you on Friday?
> 
> (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This chapter is home to: **Blackmail** , **On the Run** , and **Tyranny/Rebellion**.

Getting out of the palace is almost laughably easy. The guards patrol as expected, and once he’s guided Jason down into one of the secret tunnels beneath the palace — created for the escape of the royal family, given an emergency, and known only to the members of his family — there’s nothing to stand in their way anymore. He still finds it difficult to move particularly well, but for some reason Jason stays at his side instead of leaving him behind, blade in one hand and the other occasionally silently reaching out to give him a bit of support whenever his breath catches or his steps falter.

He does not acknowledge the help — it is not _necessary_ — but Jason doesn’t either, so he allows it to slide. It's little more than passing anyway; minor touches to the small of his back or beneath one arm to make certain he's stable before they fall away again.

The passage lets out past the walls of the palace, in a deserted, dead-end corner at the outskirts of the city. It was, after all, designed to get them as far out as necessary to escape, not to leave them stranded in a pillaged city and likely to draw attention on the way out. There are others that let out closer in, but most are like this one. He knows them all by heart, as well as the fastest routes out of the city itself once on the outskirts. There is, after all, still the outer wall to get past. That one they'll have to traverse a bit quicker, before their escape is discovered and the alarms rung.

But before that, they'll need something more concealing than the prisoner clothes they're wearing. Cloaks and longer shirts, ideally. Jason's magical restraints will need to be covered, and the bandages for his brand can't show either. Not that he has any intention of actually staying with Jason for more than the short amount of time required to steal that clothing. Jason is useful enough as defense, but he does not trust the man even an inch, and backlashes are easy to spot when they're marked as obviously as Jason is anyway, so they're hardly good companions for traveling under the radar. He has no desire to endanger himself; he would rather risk traveling on his own, despite his wounds, than having such an obvious target with him.

Jason shuts the passage smoothly, leaving only a very faint hint of a line where the stone of the door blends in against the wall it's hidden in. It grates a bit, but Jason seems to have no trouble pushing it closed, despite that. It's moderately impressive, given that he knows how heavy those stone doors are, having tested them himself when his mother was making sure he knew all the ways in and out of the palace.

"We'll need something to disguise ourselves," Jason says, voicing what he's been thinking. "We can't exactly go walking out of the city like this."

"Yes," he agrees, studying the surrounding buildings and the distance to the wall to figure out exactly where they are and what's around them. Houses, mainly. It's early morning, about an hour before dawn. The workers will be heading out soon, as will those who make their living off of traveling for trade. That won't be a difficult crowd to blend into.

"Supplies too, if you want to make the next town over without having to detour to an oasis." Jason comes to stand at his side, arms crossing as he squints towards the wall. "It's only half a day, but that's still enough that we'll both need water, especially since you'll be moving slower. Maybe up that to most of a day, depending how quickly you tire out."

He glares, despite the valid point being made. "I am _perfectly_ capable of walking that distance. I am injured, not a _cripple_."

Jason's, "Uh-huh," doesn't sound even slightly convinced. "Point still stands. We need clothes, water, and travelling food would be good too. Dried meat or something; stuff we can eat while walking. We should get into one of these houses and see how much we can find. Bit of coin would be good too, even though it's kinda shitty to steal from people that need it."

"But murdering guards is acceptable?" he snaps, and then seizes the available chance for what it is. "Things will go faster if we choose separate homes; I will meet you back here." Once he's out of sight he can disappear into the city, which will save him the trouble of having to slip Jason somehow later on.

He doesn't get more than a step before Jason shifts and suddenly _strikes_ , lashing out at his back. He jerks forward, avoids the lightning-fast attack by a hair, but his muscles spasm at the sudden movement and he gasps at the pain and staggers, nearly falling. He turns as fast as he can, slightly bent but at least still on his feet, teeth bared and gripping the one blade he has tightly enough the hilt bites into his palm. It's no match against what Jason's collected, and given what he has seen of Jason's skill he cannot _hope_ to beat him while he's so badly hurt, but he will _not_ make it easy.

But Jason is just standing there, arms crossing again and one eyebrow raised. "And what do you think you're going to do if someone spots you?" The question comes out flat, and then Jason's voice turns mockingly sarcastic when he adds, "Fall over? A _peasant_ could kill you right now if they were brave enough to ignore that blade. We're safer together than separate."

"You are a walking target," he spits back. "Until you have something to cover your hair and those restraints, I am _not_ safer with you than without. I can be missed; you cannot."

Jason's eyes narrow, and that voice lowers to a darker growl. "That sounds like a really terrible attempt to disguise a plan to ditch me, _Damian_. You got any idea why I'm getting that impression?"

He scoffs. "Perhaps your years imprisoned left you paranoid as well as cursed."

A step closer, teeth flashing in a snarl. "You're _not_ leaving me behind."

"I do not recall promising you _anything_ once we had escaped the dungeons, Jason. What I do is my own business, not yours."

He steps away to widen the distance between them again, keeping an eye on Jason as he starts to turn half away, before Jason threatens, "I'll bring your whole _world_ crashing down on you."

That is enough to make him turn back, to meet Jason's narrowed eyes with a sneer. "You have _nothing_ on me. If you report me to the guards, or my old family, you will be executed as well. Ra's al Ghul does not tolerate the murder of those in his service."

"I know who your father is." He freezes in place, and Jason's small snarl lifts into a smirk. There's a vicious sort of satisfaction to his tone when he spits, "Now, what do you think Ra's al Ghul would do to your mother if he knew that she had a child from his greatest enemy, and let it be raised as his _heir?_ I'd bet he doesn't tolerate treason real well either, and I'd bet that he'd be willing to put me right back in my cell for a piece of information like that, at the _least_."

His breath comes sharp, mind spinning uselessly in his head as he stares. He can only manage to ask, "How do you know that? That information is—”

"Not as secret as you'd like." Jason's smirk falls away. "You stay with me, or the list of people who know it suddenly gets a lot bigger."

He grits his teeth together. Despite how his mind is struggling, he can't find any other option. He won't risk his mother's life, and Jason is right, she _will_ be killed — at the least — if Ra's finds out that his father is Bruce Wayne, the leader of the resistance. A deliberate deception like that is not one that will be forgiven. Jason has already proven willing to kill without remorse, so he must assume that the backlash will carry his threat out if crossed, and… and he is in no condition to attempt killing him. Even if he weren't injured, he isn't entirely certain that he could kill Jason without use of his magic. Whoever taught him, they were _very_ skilled.

He has no other choice but to accept Jason's terms, at least until something about their circumstances changes.

"Fine," he grinds out. "I will stay. For now."

"Good," Jason snaps back, and then strides right past him, heading to the corner of their dead end to look around it.

"Why are you demanding this?" he asks, making no effort to disguise his anger or frustration. "I will be hunted by more people than you by a large margin; why would you _want_ to stay beside me?"

"What I do is my own business, not yours," Jason mocks, with the flash of a sneer back at him. "Come on; we haven't got time to waste. If the alarms go out while we're still inside the walls things are going to go south _real_ quick."

“I am _aware_ ,” he almost snarls, but he follows anyway.

* * *

He starts to consider that maybe Jason truly _is_ an assassin when his forced companion finds an empty house and then begins to pick the lock, pulling something thin and metal out to do it that he doesn’t remember ever seeing him pick up. He follows, keeping pace easily enough due to the caution that Jason is moving with, when the lock pops open and they're allowed entrance to the house. He closes the door again as Jason sweeps in, moving with a quiet grace as he sweeps the rooms of the simple house. He stays silent and still by the door until Jason reemerges from the last one, footsteps heavy enough to actually be heard now and the implicit readiness gone from his frame.

"We're clear," Jason says, though his gaze is still flicking about, examining corners. "Bedroom is that way.” One thumb is jerked over his shoulder, in the direction of a now open door. "Grab whatever fits decently enough. Probably want to ditch the old clothes too, if you can. I'll take a look around and see if I can find anything valuable enough to buy us a couple meals when we're at the next town."

He scowls. "I do not recall agreeing that you would be the leader between us, Backlash."

"I'm not," is the instant counter, that's quickly followed by a flicker of a snarl. "But I'm the guy who can actually move faster than a walk without folding over in pain, and _I'm_ the one who knows a little something about being hunted. Every second you waste with your ego is a second closer to us getting caught, so suck it up and get moving, Damian. You want to talk technicalities of _pecking_ order? Wait till we're in the desert."

Jason is right, though he despises the fact. Whoever Jason is, or was, it still grates at him to be taking orders like some commoner. Even if he is no longer an al Ghul, he is still royalty, and he has no intention of bowing to the whims of some _backlash_ criminal, no matter how strangely skilled he may be. That will be something he makes perfectly clear as soon as the time exists to do so, but for now he has no other choice. Unless he wishes for both of them to get caught before they've even left the city, he can't dig his heels in and ignore orders that make perfect sense.

"I am not doing this because you _told_ me to," he declares, and stalks past Jason towards the bedroom. There's a snort, but no other comment.

The house apparently belongs to a couple, and he turns away from the hanging dresses — it would be a disguise, certainly, but he has his _pride_ still, if nothing else — and to the dresser belonging to the man. Luckily, the male of the couple seems to be roughly of Jason's size, perhaps even a touch larger, so once he's dug out the smallest set of clothing from within the drawers it ends up fitting him well enough. At least, well enough that it looks like the clothing of someone mildly impoverished, and thus prone to hand-me-downs and not clothing that fits as it should. He doesn't like it, but he acknowledges that it is better than wearing clothes well-fitted enough to look as though he has some degree of wealth.

He will not admit it, but the looseness of the clothing is also a relief. The lack of consistent pressure against his brands is a good thing; he doesn't know if he would have been capable of standing closer fitting clothes for any real length of time.

He emerges from the room, accustoming himself to the feeling of the rougher fabric against his skin, and considering whether he will end up with blisters from the too-loose boots that he wasn't able to replace from this man's supplies. Possibly, but there's little he can do about that. It will hardly be the first time that he's had a blister; he can handle it. Of more concern is the fact that there did not seem to be any cloaks among this man's clothes, and those are an absolute necessity for escaping this city. They're both far too recognizable without them.

"We will have to find cloaks elsewhere," he announces, as he returns to the main room and finds Jason filling a medium sized sack with what looks like food and water. "If these people had any, they left with them for the day."

"That's a pain," Jason says, frowning a bit. "Whatever. Here, pack the rest of this in while I change." He bristles again, and Jason rolls his eyes and then adds, _sickeningly_ sweet and clearly sarcastic, " _Please_."

Jason sweeps past him, and while he _could_ simply stand there and refuse to help, it's not really in his best interest either. So despite his irritation over being ordered around, he moves forward and takes over the job of filling the sack with the pile of items beside it. Food, mostly, as well as several full waterskins and a small sprinkling of items that look somewhat valuable. Nothing that would even be allowed in the palace proper, but perhaps might sell for a couple coins to the right merchant. He sneers at them, but puts them in the sack anyway; Jason probably knows better than him what commoners consider to be 'valuable.'

Jason takes less time than he did, and the clothes fit him significantly better. He's chosen lighter colored ones, almost tan, and he scowls at the choice only because he had none, not with the man being so much wider in the shoulders than him. His clothes are black, which makes him believe that he may be pilfering the commoner's 'finest' clothes, considering the smaller size and impractical color. Black clothing is hardly conducive to the desert outside of these walls. The tan clothing on Jason however, is. It will blend in nicely against the sand too, whereas he will stick out like a sore thumb.

The sleeves on Jason's top are long enough to cover the metal restraints on his upper arms, but the cut of it is too low to hide the one at his throat. He'll still need a cloak for that, or at least some sort of headscarf to serve the same purpose. Most of their people have adopted a style of clothing more along the lines of the Eastern part of the Kingdom, where there are woods and real grass, but enough cling to the older, looser clothing that they may be able to make do with simple scarves as 'protection' against the sand without anyone questioning it. It should hide all they need it to.

"If there is anything of fine enough material in there, we could make scarves instead. They will be simpler than cloaks, and lighter as well."

"Not as good when night comes around," Jason points out, and he narrows his eyes.

"I do not intend on still being out in the sands come night, do you? We can buy or steal cloaks from somewhere when we reach the next town; as _you_ are so insistent on pointing out, we do not have the time to waste on searching for them now. Headscarves will be faster and serve our purpose just as well."

"I'll take a look." Jason turns back around, heading right back into the bedroom, and then calls, "So where are we heading?"

There's the sound of rustling fabric, then _ripping_ fabric, as he decides how much to say. Well, it is not as if Jason's blackmail can get much worse than threatening his mother's life. "To my father," he answers, as he pushes the last of the supplies into the sack and then begins to tie it. "I have nowhere else to go." It's a more painful truth than he was intending to reveal, but it is too late to take the words back now.

"You know where he is?" Jason asks, reappearing with two long pieces of cloth; both a dark brown and of decently fine material. "Pretty sure the leader of a rebellion usually isn't an easy guy to find."

"I know how to find him," he says shortly, meeting Jason's gaze in challenge. There's a moment of silence, and then Jason hands him one of the 'scarves' and shrugs.

"Alright." Jason also seems to know how to tie a headscarf, and he watches for a moment before moving to put on his own. "Once you find him? What happens then?"

He stays silent for another few moments, again considering how much is safe to admit to, before he decides that Jason — although not trustworthy, precisely — has not shown any desire to actually harm him. Yet. Self-serving, certainly, and he's most definitely someone to be wary of given his apparent skill set and knowledge of things he by all rights should not know, but he will hardly get far by shutting out the one ally he currently has in this world. (Though he _bridles_ at the use of the word 'ally;' Jason is irritating and frustrating and he would never have _chosen_ to be allied with him.)

"I will offer the information I possess. I am no longer an al Ghul, and I doubt that I will be allowed to live if I am ever caught again, so the only course of action that makes sense is to join my father's rebellion and attempt to create a world I can once again exist in without being hunted down." He raises his chin a few inches, letting his hands fall away from tying the scarf as he meets Jason's gaze. "The royalty in me does not come solely from my mother's side; I will be a prince again should my father take the empire. That will be good enough."

"Got a bit of ambition there?" Jason mocks, and then snorts. "Alright, fine. Sounds like a plan."

The scarf is pulled down for now, exposing Jason's face from his eyes to just below his mouth, but obscuring everything about him that makes him notable. The folds cover the collar at his throat, as well as the streak of white in his hair. As for him, he has it pulled up over his nose, so just his eyes are visible. His face is known.

Jason's hands fall to the belt he's still wearing, and there's a bit of reluctance as he unbuckles the sheathed sword from the rest of it and carefully sets it on the table. Though he does not enjoy the thought of leaving behind their largest weapon, he sees the reasoning. Two traveling commoners with a knife each is acceptable; a commoner with a sword is something to be wary and suspicious of. Most commoners can't afford swords, let alone swords of the quality that the palace's guards have.

"Let's head out," Jason says, taking the sack and pulling it over one shoulder. He's certain it's heavy, but the weight doesn't seem to bother him at all. "You good?" He dips his head in confirmation, and Jason nods back. "Good. Look, I know you're a prideful little _shit_ , apparently, but if you need to stop just say something, alright?"

He bares his teeth, opens his mouth to say something scathing because he is _hardly_ helpless or useless and he will not allow anyone to think he is. But Jason adds, "They're nasty injuries," before he can, in a quieter voice and with a nearly disturbing level of sincerity. "It's a hell of a thing that you've made it this far, with how fresh those are. Most people couldn't."

He pauses, trying to find the mocking or sarcastic edge to any of it, but he simply cannot. So he asks, "And if I had collapsed in the tunnels? What would have happened then?"

The sack gets shouldered a little more securely, and then Jason says, "I guess you'll never know," and walks past him, nothing in his expression to betray what that's supposed to _mean_.

He follows automatically, even as he tries to understand the strange burst of sincerity and… almost _compassion_ that Jason just displayed. He did not believe that the backlash was capable of either, given his murder of the guards and the ease with which he did it. Compassionate people don't kill as efficiently as Jason did, at least not without showing some sign of it bothering them. Those fools were always weeded out of his grand— Ra's' guards. His former family never had any use for soldiers who might hesitate in their duties.

Jason's pace stays slow enough that he can keep even without too much effort, and it only takes him a few minutes to realize that Jason knows precisely where they're going. There's no hesitation when it comes to the streets he turns down, and all of it leads unerringly towards the closest gate in the city's walls. If they were on more common, thoroughfare roads he wouldn't even have noticed, but there are residential areas and don't have the most intuitive paths to leave them; most people don't know the back neighborhoods of this city unless they live in it or they — like he did — memorized the layout.

"Did you live here?" he asks. "Before you were imprisoned."

"No," is the almost immediate answer. "I was born pretty far East of here, but I traveled a fair amount."

He studies the profile of Jason's face, looking for genetic markers and only able to confirm what the backlash is saying. The pale skin and shape of his eyes says Eastern, not more local like his own tinted skin, and though it's not necessarily uncommon for people to relocate, it isn't his first assumption. 'Traveling,' however, would not be enough to explain Jason's familiarity with the back streets of a city this large.

"You're very familiar with the layout of the city," he points out, studying Jason's expression for any tells. He doesn't get anything.

"Yeah, guess I am."

It drags an irritated click of his tongue from him, and he resists the urge to cross his arms, pulling his gaze away from his infuriatingly mysterious companion and back onto the roads. He has never met someone so utterly _impenetrable_. Jason's personality is easy enough to read, and understand, but the rest of him is irritatingly shrouded in mystery. Intense combat skills — there are not many who can stand up to trained, magic-wielding guards with only physical skill — competent lockpicking, and a seemingly vast store of knowledge he should not possess (his father's identity, the layout of the city, and how to tie a headscarf when he is by admission not local). All things individually explainable, but together…

"Try to look a little less murderous, hm?" He turns his head to look again, and Jason meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow. "We still have to actually get past the guards, and we're not going to if you look like you're contemplating killing everything within a hundred feet. Try and maybe talk to me too? It's going to look weird if we're the only pair on the road not actually speaking to each other."

"And what would you suggest we talk about?" he demands, even as he tries to smooth out his expression some. He has been trained how to behave in front of a court his entire life, surely he can manage to be cool even in the face of one immensely irritating backlash.

"Well, ideally something that people can overhear and not think we're exactly what we are." Jason's tone is dry, but it's true enough. "Make up a story or something."

"Why don't _you_ talk?" he counters, pointedly. "You are the one with your mouth exposed, so it would look better if you were to do most of the talking and I simply commented or answered occasionally. That way it can be seen that we are talking even from a distance."

The look Jason gives him is a little irritated, but it smooths out as they turn a last corner and come out on a main road, where the traffic is immediately heavier and they can blend in with the stream of other people that are leaving the city for the morning. Most will come back when their work is finished for the day, whatever that work may be. Others, like them, are travelers. Both seem to be equally common as far as he can tell, and the clothes they've taken let them nearly disappear in amongst the rest of the commoners. Jason's slightly quicker step puts them directly behind two merchants with horses, and he grudgingly accepts that it's a good call; either the guards will stop the merchants to talk with them and they can slip around during the distraction, or they'll be partially hidden behind the bulk of the horses and less likely to be noticed anyway.

"Alright," Jason says quietly, and then almost immediately starts in louder, halfway through a sentence as if it's an interrupted conversation, not the start of one. "And so this kid, this kid comes _crashing_ through the damn bush and—”

He _barely_ resists whipping his head around to stare at his companion, because Jason's voice has slipped into an almost _perfect_ mimicry of a local accent. It's close enough that the syllables that aren't quite right are easily explained away by his foreign features, but place him firmly as having lived somewhere local for a long time. He forces his shock not to show, keeping his gaze mostly forwards and offering appropriate noises or comments when spaces in the story Jason is telling offer the chance. Accent mimicry; another skill he's going to have to add to the list of strange things his companion knows how to do.

Assassin, or _spy_ , maybe? It seems like a backlash would be a poor choice to train as either of those things, but then again… maybe not. Backlashes rarely stay in one place for long; most towns won't accept one living within their borders for any lengthy period of time. So a backlash would have cause to constantly travel, to wear clothes that would hide their features, and to carry weaponry, all of which are things that spies or assassins would regularly do as well. It's an interesting theory, anyway, even if he is entirely off the mark.

For now, he should simply accept that Jason's skills are useful, and let go of trying to figure out where they come from. He has bigger concerns than the origin of his mystery companion.

He has to fight not to hold his breath as they approach the gate itself, and the guards to either side that are watching the flow of people, but Jason never falters. He doesn't even pay the guards any mind, and he finds himself looking at Jason instead of them, watching the way he speaks and smirks and gestures with the hand not holding the sack over his shoulder. It's fascinating, and it keeps him distracted long enough that when he looks away again, suddenly they're out from underneath the gate, with the desert stretching out before them along with the ground-down path of the main road itself. He blinks, somewhat startled, and Jason takes his arm, pushing him gently towards the outside of the road.

"Traveling commoners walk on the side," Jason says, breaking out of the accent as easily as he slipped into it. "Horses, carts, and nobles get the middle. Remember, let me know if you need to stop for a bit."

"I will not need to stop," he snaps, and then glances around to see if anyone else is close enough to have heard. They aren't. The merchants have pulled away, and the rest of the people around them seem to have all naturally fallen into their own pairs or groups with plenty of space between them.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather stop than have you fall over on me; it'll call less attention." Jason reaches up, pulling the scarf up to hook over his nose, so only those blue-green eyes are visible behind the wrap. "We're not going to make the next town before they realize we're gone, but if we're lucky they'll lock the city down to search it and not send riders out until they're fairly sure you've fled the city."

"We'll need to contend with trackers," he points out. "The royal family employs the best in the kingdom to hunt those it needs to, and—”

"Not going to be a problem," Jason interrupts, and he glances up sharply. Jason shrugs. "I'm bound, and you're sealed. We're not leaving any magical traces to track. They'll have to pull out physical tracking methods to find us, and usually those take longer and are less effective."

"You have experience being hunted?" he asks, and Jason's eyes flare with something like anger as they look down at him.

"What do _you_ think?"

He considers answering, considers rising to the challenge of Jason's tone, but ultimately decides not to. Instead he scowls back, scoffs, and increases his pace a touch to draw away from his 'ally.'

The pain it costs him is entirely worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Happy New Years, everyone! To those who don't follow my Tumblr, I am now a functional human being again. Minus still having some staples in me that are coming out soon. I am now productive again. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This chapter is home to: Food Poisoning, and Minor Illness/Injury.

They do end up stopping, and Jason’s not at all surprised. Damian, for all of his grumpy stubbornness, is just not in the right kind of health to be making a trek this long with little to no warning. He knew it, and he _told_ the brat, but of course he wasn’t listened to. Damian pushed himself too hard, too fast, and by the time they’re halfway there Damian is lagging behind instead of stalking ahead.

He slows, but he can tell by the way Damian is moving (or not moving, more specifically) that they’re going to have to stop before the town. There’s a stiffness to the way the brat is walking, and the way his shoulders are artificially straight but his neck is bowed forward, that speaks to exhaustion and severe pain. He could have told anyone who asked that _that_ was going to happen.

He’s spent a lot of time watching people, studying them and learning how to read them. He’s spent a lot of time learning _anything_ that will make the playing field a little bit more even, honestly. It’s a hard world to the people not accepted by society, and he’s done some things he’s not at all proud of to try and get by, but he learned a long time ago that no one else would ever really understand so frankly he could give a shit what anyone else thinks about him. _He_ knows that life’s a lot nastier than most people can imagine if you happen to be born unlucky, and _boy_ is he unlucky.

As a kid he didn’t actually know why people hated him so much, why everyone drew away or drove him away in turns. By the time he was old enough to understand, he was old enough to hate them right back.

Some part of him, some intrinsic connection that’s just a little misaligned, and that was all it took to make him one of _them_. A backlash. Magic’s occasional freak show of a side effect; someone born with _enormous_ power and almost no control over it.

He can use magic, he knows how, and his effects can overwhelm just about anyone through sheer brute force, but it costs him one hell of a lot more than it’s worth in most cases. Pain is what most people would classify it as. But then, most people can’t even imagine the feeling of being burned alive from the inside out, or being so thoroughly saturated with power that it feels like it’ll crack right through your ribs if you don’t let it out right that very second. He’s lived with both feelings since he was born, which has been a lot longer than most of his kind survive.

If the magic doesn’t eventually burn them out, well, normal people are usually more than willing to do it for them.

He’s not quite cruel or stupid enough to think that Damian is actually lucky for being sealed, but he does envy it in a way. To have _nothing_ would be easier than having this much and being fundamentally unable to handle it. Not that Damian would ever think of it that way; he’s got full control of his magic and — he’d bet — a whole lot of skill with it. After all, he is— He _was_ a prince.

Which also explains the complete unwillingness to admit that he’s in terrible pain, or that he’s probably less than an hour from dropping where he stands at the current pace. Prideful idiot.

He had a front row seat to the branding, and no one with the kind of burns stretching over the brat’s back and chest could reasonably be expected to be anywhere near alright within a day and a half. Most would be laid out for weeks, and honestly he doesn’t think most people would be capable of traveling even a fraction of the distance that Damian’s managed to cover. Even if he is stubborn to _beyond_ a fault, Damian’s definitely got quite a bit of strength to him.

He really wouldn’t expect anything less from Bruce’s son.

Damian staggers half a step, right leg faltering and dipping further than it should, and he bites back a sigh and slows down.

“Come on,” he mutters, reaching out to take the kid’s arm and pull him gently, but firmly, down off the road and into the sands. They shift under his feet, and he can tell the kid’s having problems with the unstable ground, but there’s no complaint.

There’s also no protestation, so that means it’s just as bad as he thinks.

He gets them far enough off the road that they’re clearly recognizable as travelers without actually being close enough to identify, and then carefully helps Damian sit down. The kid sways a little bit, and he rolls his eyes — it’s not like Damian’s looking up at him — and pulls the bag off of his shoulder to drop it down before he sits down at the brat’s side. At an angle that should, from most views from the road, shield Damian almost completely from view. After all, he’s bigger and taller and that means if he sits close enough he can be mostly in front of Damian’s body.

“Thought I told you to tell me when you needed to stop,” he comments. He doesn’t actually expect Damian to answer him in any favorable way, but he’s not going to just let it go by without saying anything. He might be concerned, but he’s not concerned enough not to be a little bit pissed that the kid is letting pride get in the way of practicality.

The brat might not be quite as in tune with his body as Jason is, but he’s the heir to the emperor of a whole kingdom, and he happens to know that Ra’s’ kingdom values skill really highly. Damian should damn well know better than to push himself past the endurance of his own body just to what, prove a point? Not show weakness?

Damian hisses at him, but it’s weak and breathless so he ignores it. He digs into the pack, retrieving some of the water and then shifting back to sit a little more behind Damian as opposed to next to him. He lifts his other hand to tug the scarf down off of Damian’s nose, baring his mouth, and then grips the back of the brat’s neck to tilt his head back.

He gets a small grunt of pain, and then, “What is it you think you are doing?” It’s got an almost surprising amount of venom to it, but then again this is _Damian_. Even in the short amount of time that he’s been around the former prince, it’s been clear that the kid has so much venom in him that it practically leaks from his pores.

“If you want to lift your arms, hold the water, and drink some without dropping the rest, be my guest. But I’m betting that lifting anything is going to be harder than you can handle right now.”

“I am not a _cripple_ ,” Damian spits, pulling away from his grip and shooting him a nasty look over one shoulder.

He narrows his eyes right back, carefully seals the water shut again, and then dumps the bag in Damian’s lap. “Go on then. If you can lift it up to your mouth and hold it there for ten seconds, I’ll let you do this by yourself. But I’m not letting you waste water just cause you’re a stubborn little bastard and you think you can do more than you actually can.”

Damian holds his gaze, and yeah, the kid is clearly angry, but he can also see the edges of helpless fury there. Emphasis on the helpless. He understands that enough that he’s maybe not as pissed as he could be. He’s acted tough, and done stupid shit, because he felt like he didn’t have any control over his own life. He’s done his level best to make sure that he’s strong enough that no one else ever gets to make him feel that impotently helpless again.

So he understands the feeling, and gets why Damian is trying to exert control over anything he can, but that doesn’t change the fact that if he keeps pressing he’s going to end up passed out or worse. They’re not equipped to spend the night in a desert, and carrying the brat to a town is just a couple steps above the worst case scenario. He _can_ , but that doesn’t mean that he wants to, and it would draw a _whole_ lot of attention that they’re in no position to fend off right now.

A sharp click of a tongue, and then Damian looks away. But he also shifts, slightly, back towards the grip of the hand at his neck. Good enough.

He’s careful about it, and relatively gentle. He keeps the flow small as he tilts Damian’s head back and trickles water in slow enough patterns that Damian can gather it and swallow without choking. Not too much, but enough to let the kid rehydrate, rest, and maybe get a bit of his strength back. Physical strength, that is. He could do with a bit less will, frankly.

Eventually he pulls it away, and lets Damian have control again as he hands him some of the dried meat he’d gathered from the house they’d looted. Damian makes a sharp face at it, almost seems about to complain, but before he can even roll his eyes the brat tears a piece off and starts to chew.

He snacks too; together it’s easy polishing off what little could fit into the sack without making it awfully heavy or clearly way more prepared than two random, local travelers would need to be. Damian doesn’t ask for more water, and he doesn’t press.

Eventually he says, quiet against the rush of the sands in the faint wind, “Look, I get that this sucks in ways I probably can’t imagine, but if you pass out on me we’ll get caught for sure, alright? I need you up and mobile; it’s just common sense.”

Damian is watching him, looking maybe a little bit less angry with him than is the norm, and he shrugs a little and starts to pack the remnants of the stuff away. There’s not much; they’ll need to steal or trade for a meal of some kind when they get to the next village.

“I know you hate the whole admitting weakness thing, but when you need to stop — preferably _before_ you need to — just tell me. I’m not going to judge you, brat. If we’re going to actually manage this, you need to knock off this ‘go until I drop’ thing.”

The kid’s bristling before he even stops speaking, and his words are clipped and hard when he says, “I am not _weak_. I do not care if you judge me.”

“That’s not what I— Fuck. Just _listen_ for a second, would you? I’m not out to _get_ you.” He slings the pack over his shoulder and gets to his feet, glaring down at Damian and deliberately _not_ offering the kid a hand because he’s pretty sure he’s pissed off enough — again — that he’ll hurt the kid just by being careless. “I already _know_ you’re weak, Damian. I know you’re exhausted, I know you’re in severe pain, I _know_ that your magic is sealed and your brands aren’t close to healed. _Think_ about that for a second, alright? I committed to this fucking journey with you, and I knew what I was getting into. If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead. If all I wanted was to get out of the city, that’s done. I could have left you behind a dozen times by now; I haven’t.”

Damian looks uncertain, wary, and for a split second he can see the pain clear in those teal eyes.

He sighs, and offers a hand. “Come on, let’s head out. We’ll go slow.”

He doesn’t get a thank you, or anything, but he’s not expecting it. Damian does take his hand though, and that’s at least _something_.

* * *

They have to stop two more times before they actually get to the village, and it's not hard to see that Damian is getting progressively more exhausted as the day goes on. It's a struggle to get him up and walking the last time, and it's almost night by the time they actually reach the village. No guards yet though, so that's something. They'd have made pretty big targets if any patrols or hunters had come looking for them.

As it is, Damian is practically leaning against his side by the time they hit the village, and he's got a careful arm wrapped around the brat's shoulders to try and support him. Delicate line to walk to support the kid without hurting him too badly, but he's doing his best. Damian's not complaining anyway, not that he thinks the brat _would_ complain even if he was actually hurting more than helping. Glaring doesn't count; that's been happening less as the day wore on, but only because Damian is looking more and more visibly exhausted.

He steers Damian off the main stretch of road and down into the more shadowy depths of the town, as the sun starts to sink down and cast the whole place in actual darkness. It's habit for him to find the less legal corners of towns at this point; it's one of the few places where he doesn't automatically draw attention just for being what he is. There are other dangers to consider, but in general most criminals will leave a backlash alone; they're too dangerous to mess with unless the kill is quick or you've got just the right equipment.

Injured backlashes, he's learned the hard way, have a nasty habit of tending to vent all the magic in their systems on everything around them. Generally that gets explosive, and lethal for anyone within radius.

So once he's found that sketchy part of town he tugs his scarf down, baring the white streak in his hair and making it clear to everyone who knows anything that he's dangerous. Damian is too out of it to really notice what he's done, but he plasters half a sneer on his face and brings the kid further in against his side to make it _real_ clear that Damian is with him and under his protection. He might look dangerous, both because he's a backlash and because he's big, tall, and muscled, but Damian sure doesn't look it at a first glance.

Damian's not _actually_ a kid, even if he's on the younger side, but with how tired he is he doesn't have the murderous glare down either. (And a murderous glare would get him more interest than avoidance, anyway.) He's tall enough — just under six feet and only actually about three inches shorter than him — but the loose clothing hides how well the brat is built, and with how his shoulders are curling inwards and his stride is wavering it makes him look like exactly what he is. A target.

None of that is going to be fixed until Damian gets some rest and some real food. Ideally, he'd like to find the healer with the usual lack of morals and see if he can get Damian healed, so at least they can head out stronger. Could be tricky to pay them, but he'll figure something out. There's always a healer around that's willing to look the other way for the right price, or the right incentive. Once he was on his own, and before he was under Bruce's care, he had to learn all the tricks of surviving while being hunted. It was that or be killed. He never lost the knowledge of finding exactly where to hide in a town, or who would be willing to 'help' for the right price.

That's where most of the things he's not proud of came from. He's sold… a lot of things, over the years. Less, after he fell in under Bruce's shadow, but still more than he wants to admit to. More than he's ever told anyone.

The people they pass look at them, look at _Damian_ specifically, and he sneers over the brat's head to warn them off. No one actually tries to approach them, or stop them, which is good. He can handle a lot more than anyone tends to give him credit, but getting in a fight would not be a good decision right now. Fights tend to ruin low profiles, and that's the biggest priority right now. A backlash and an escaped prince make for memorable faces.

It isn't hard to find a hole-in-the-wall place that seems to serve some kind of food, and he steers them inside and then puts Damian into a corner seat. "I'll be right back," he says, quiet but firm, and Damian _is_ actually looking at him so he takes it as acceptance.

There aren't many other people in the cramped establishment, but they still shy away from him as he walks through the center of the room to get to the bar, and he can see the unfriendly edge to the expression of the man behind the bar's face the second he's spotted. He walks right up regardless, ignoring the skittering of the people behind him; he's pretty sure a couple actually leave the building, but to hell with them anyway.

He steps up to the bar, and before he can even say anything the man spits, "Your kind's not welcome here, Backlash. Get out."

Practice lets him keep his voice quiet, and non-confrontational. "I know. I'm just looking to trade for food and then I'll go. Swear. I'm heading right back out of town."

The man doesn't look remotely happy about it, but there's a stiff nod. He digs into the sack for what he managed to scavenge from the house they raided, and produces the necklace he found to drop on the counter. Real silver and a small gem, more than enough and normally he wouldn't trade down like that but he can always find more things to trade later. Right now, there isn't time to waste in bartering or getting exactly as much as he rightfully should for something like the necklace he took.

"Two bowls of what you have," he says, before the man can say anything. "It's more than enough and you know it; don't even start."

He gets a nasty look from the man, but the necklace is snatched off the counter with a huff. He leans back a touch as the man heads back through a curtain to whatever kind of kitchen is in there, and takes the opportunity to subtly glance around the room. The people still here are watching him, unsurprisingly, and he keeps track of them out of the corners of his eyes to make sure that he's not attacked, and neither is Damian. He might want to avoid a scene, but he's not willing to take injury or let the brat get hurt any worse than he already is to keep from making that scene.

The man comes back in short order, with two flimsy wooden bowls of seriously suspicious looking 'stew,' and all but drops them in front of him.

"Out of my place," the man snarls over the counter.

He almost glares back, but shoulders his bag and picks up both bowls to carefully balance on one arm instead. He doesn't offer anything else, because he's not sure he could keep the simmering anger out of his voice, and he doesn't look back at the guy either because he's _done_ with being polite for now. They hate him anyway, why waste the effort? (God, he's gotten too used to the solitude and peace of Ra's' cells, and the sort-of friendliness of the guards there if this is irritating him so much.)

Damian is watching him too, and rises when he approaches, which he's thankful for. He tilts his head towards the door, and steps in behind Damian as the brat follows his prompt to leave. He breathes out slow once they're outside again, and he can stop watching the edges of his vision for any sudden movement. At least actively. He never really comes off his guard in places like this, but it's not the same kind of high-alert that he's in when around people who obviously dislike him, and probably wouldn't think twice about slitting his throat if they thought they could get away with it. Especially because most of them have the knives to actually do it, and it's not like anyone's going to involve whatever guards are in the city in this part of the town.

"Just a little further," he murmurs, keeping his voice quiet as he shepherds Damian off of the main streets and into the alleys between the 'houses.' Most of them are ramshackle huts, more than they are actual houses, but they're still better than what he's looking for, and finds before too long.

A sheltered corner with the eaves of a roof half protecting it, out of sight of any of the 'main' streets and carefully tucked away. Decent place to catch some sleep, with only a couple ways to get to it and no one likely to find them on purpose. Accidentally, maybe, but he trusts his own senses to wake him up if necessary. He never lost the light sleep of a slum-dweller either, or how those senses are very finely tuned to ignore the normal sounds of a place like this and only actually wake up to things that could be dangerous.

People nearby, for one.

He sets the bowls down first, then helps Damian to curl up against one corner. The brat makes a gut-wrenching sound of pain when he leans into the wall, but grits his teeth and breathes through it, eyes squeezing shut for a minute. He resists the automatic urge to try and comfort the kid, or at least say something to make it clear that he understands how much it sucks to be in pain like that. Damian doesn't need to know how often he's been in pain in his life, or how regularly.

He also doesn't need to know just how much he's enjoyed having the sealing cuffs and collar locked onto him. It's a terrible fix, but it locks away his magic, and if his magic isn't in him, it's not scratching against the inside of his skin every second of the day. He knows they'll have to come off at some point, because it makes him a lot more vulnerable than he can stomach, but he doesn't really look forward to it. Being a backlash is a deterrent. Being a backlash that won't explode with uncontrolled magic if touched makes him a target. If he's going to make it, those cuffs need to come off.

He adds that right underneath the priority of, 'get Damian healed.'

He picks up one of the bowls and settles himself against Damian's side, trapping him in the corner and raising the food up. Damian squints down at it, recoils a little, and he snorts. "Not what you're used to, I know. You need food and this is what's available. Suck it up and deal, Damian; this is what we've got."

"It smells foul," the brat complains.

"Yep," he agrees. "Now come on. It's this or go hungry, and you can't afford that right now."

Damian shivers, makes another sharp sound of pain, and then slowly nods. He does the same thing he did with the water, cupping the back of Damian's neck and then slowly tipping the bowl to give Damian little fractions of the stew at a time, so he has the gaps necessary to swallow. Which he does; repeatedly and quickly. Yeah, that's just about the best thing to do with nasty tasting food. Swallow as quickly as possible and hope that none of it manages to hit too many taste buds. But, to his credit, Damian doesn't actively complain. At least not anymore. He winces a bit, and pauses twice to grimace and shudder, but doesn't protest eating the rest of the bowl.

When Damian is done he pushes the bowl aside, and lets the kid curl further into the corner as he eats his own bowl. It _is_ fairly nasty, but it's food and he's had worse, so he makes do. He's probably better at the whole swallowing trick than Damian is, and he's not fighting through pain for it, so he knows it's easier for him.

The brat's nearly passed out when he finishes anyway, but he gently moves the kid partially on top of his chest to give him something softer to rest against than the wall, and curls an arm around the kid's chest. He gets protesting grumbles for it, but ignores them.

"Get some rest," he says instead, in a whisper. "We'll move on in the morning."

* * *

Waking up isn't pleasant. He drags back to consciousness, and it isn't until he's most of the way there that he recognizes how _awful_ he feels, and the twist to his stomach, as what it is. Bad stew after all; he wishes he could say he was actually surprised, but it's happened to him too many times. Backlashes get the shit food.

Damian is shivering against him, and he carefully breathes out and then opens his eyes, squinting against the early morning light for a couple seconds before his eyes adjust. It takes him a minute to gather himself enough to risk moving, and then he carefully extracts himself from being partially underneath Damian, resting the kid against the wall. He doesn't stir, but he does keep trembling, and that worries him enough to stop him from immediately getting up.

He extends a hand, brushing Damian's exposed jaw with his fingers, and spits a curse between his teeth at how hot the kid feels. Some of it is probably the same upset stomach that he's got, but fevers don't come with food poisoning. Sickness does, or infection. That ups the priority on getting Damian to a healer to a _right now_ kind of thing.

He carefully gets to his feet, doing his best not to disturb the brat, and makes himself move out of the corner they're in. Around a bend, far enough away that it's not going to be an issue later, and _then_ he lets himself brace a hand against one wall and push against his stomach with the other. The awful excuse for a meal comes up again with very little prompting, and he lets himself work out the couple of heaves needed and then spits what he can of the taste out of his mouth. Water will fix some of the rest of it, but time is about the only thing that will actually settle his stomach at this point.

God he hates that he knows all of this so intimately.

Feeling somewhat better, he heads back to where Damian is, and finds him still out of it. He leaves him that way as he rinses his mouth out with some of the water, spitting it into an out of the way corner until his mouth doesn't taste quite so much of vomit anymore. Then he moves to Damian, kneeling in front of him and cupping his cheek, wincing a little bit at the strain on the brat's face, even in sleep.

"Hey," he says, quietly, and then louder when there's no response. " _Hey_."

Damian shifts a little, eyes blearily opening. They're hazed, and he doubts the kid is more than somewhat conscious, especially considering that he hasn't expressed his pain yet, or the nausea that must be there. He studies the kid for a second, and then carefully slides the scarf away from Damian's face and head, untying it. It'll make him more obvious, but if the kid throws up…

"We've gotta get going," he says, keeping his voice low. "You've got a fever; we need to find a healer."

Damian shivers a little harder. Then, to his surprise, the brat says, " _No_. No healer. Too much risk."

"Well I sure as hell can't heal you," he points out, "and you're not getting anywhere how you are. Either we can get stuck here, or we can find a healer with some loose morals. Since you're not in much of a position to be making choices for the two of us, I'm doing it; we're finding a healer."

The kid shudders, and then jerks, and he recognizes the movement in enough time to pull the kid forward and bend him over so he can empty his stomach onto the ground, instead of down his chest. He holds the kid up, gritting his teeth and trying not to breathe too deeply as Damian gags.

"I know," he says, reaching for the bag and the water. "I know."

Damian makes a broken sound of pain, and when he helps him up, helps him move away from the puddle, he realizes the kid's crying. Not hard, but there are tears in his eyes and helpless pain clear in his expression. He gathers the kid against his chest, ignoring the churning of his own stomach as he helps Damian with the water, to the sound of whimpers and half-stifled sobs. Even once he's helped Damian rinse his mouth out, he keeps the brat held against him, careful not to hurt him any worse than he already is.

He doesn't offer any words of comfort, but eventually Damian stops crying and starts shivering again, and when he checks he finds teal eyes hazed and barely responsive to him. The kid is _burning_.

He clenches his jaw and resets his own headscarf, tying it back over his hair so his face is the only thing exposed, and he’s not instantly recognizable anymore. It takes some work to pick the kid up in his arms, but he manages it. Even manages to get the bag too, though it’s a little awkward.

Now he just has to find a healer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! (And welcome back to regular updates, after the week of Voltron.) Enjoy!
> 
> (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This chapter is home to: Accidental Mating for Life, ((mutual)) Forced Soulbonding, and Hospital Stay.)

Experience lets him find a healer without too much of a problem, and without drawing too much attention.

It's still early, and there aren't many people out yet. He avoids two people that look more interested in killing them both than answering any questions — and keeps a careful eye on them until they're past — but then finally approaches a man that looks like he's headed to work. He has to assume the man's seen weirder than the two of them, and he points them towards the local healer — not even _blinking_ at the implication they're looking for someone a little less than legal — before heading off.

The man's gaze does linger for a little bit on Damian's exposed face though, which makes him resolve to get this handled and then get out of town as fast as possible. They can't afford anyone pointing guards their direction; they'll be elite ones this time, since he's pretty sure that no one actually believes that Damian killed the guards. Ra's may not have known exactly what kind of monster he was putting in his dungeon, but he probably does now.

The next guards that catch up with them aren't going to be surprised that he's deadly even without any magic to back it up; plus they'll be prepared for a backlash that isn't sealed anymore. Not an easy thing to take down.

The healer is _way_ back into a corner of the slums, unsurprisingly, but the building he's in definitely looks a step above the rest of what's back here. Also not surprising; healers have a kind of immunity from the normal criminal populace of slums. After all, if you need healing, you don't want your only option to be the person you stole or attacked some other time. Healers may as well be the kings of the slums.

He knocks with one hand, carefully keeping Damian held to him with the other and trying not to pay too much attention to how the brat is still trembling. It doesn't take that long before the door opens to a man who looks distinctly world-weary; on the smaller side but built thicker, with short brown hair. He's got a robe thrown over what are clearly sleep clothes, and only opens the door a couple inches to peer out at them with blue eyes.

"My friend is sick," he says, tilting to showcase Damian. "He was hurt; I'm pretty sure the wounds are infected."

The man grunts, sighs, and opens the door. "Come in." He has to duck a little to make it under the door, and then follows the flick of one hand to a bare, roughly waist-height table in the center of the room. "Tell me what symptoms he's showing."

He carefully lays Damian on the table as he says, "As of this morning; nausea, a fever, I'd guess chills, and he's at least partially delirious. He's been pretty unresponsive, but in a lot of pain." The healer approaches, and he adds, "Chest and back, burns. He got them about a day and a half ago; they were treated, but we've been traveling."

"Well that was your first mistake," the healer snaps, and immediately sets to stripping Damian's shirt off, as well as the scarf still wrapped loosely around his neck. He helps with Damian's weight, and the brat whines and grasps loosely at his arm, but can't seem to hold on for longer than a couple seconds.

He shifts a bit when the healer carefully pulls a corner of the bandages up from Damian's brands, and then puts it back and deliberately steps away. As he watches, carefully, the man moves to bolt the door, and then settle the curtains more firmly over the single window on the far side of the front room. Then he comes back, standing on the opposite side of the table and looking up at him with one raised eyebrow.

"I just need him fit enough to travel," he says quietly.

The healer gives a small nod. "I can help him. Take off the headscarf first; then we'll talk payment."

He hesitates for just a second, but grits his teeth and does it. The healer's gaze flicks up to his hair, and then down to the metal collar at his throat. Calculating, but not outright rejecting yet, which is a step above what could have happened. The gaze lingers on the collar, before the man raises an eyebrow and looks down at his covered wrists. He huffs out a breath, but pushes his sleeves up to bare the matching cuffs locked around his upper arms.

"I need him healed," he says, to break the silence. “Fever and the brands too.”

“Not hard,” the healer says, gaze dropping back down to Damian. “Should I be expecting guards at my door within the next couple of days?”

“Probably.” Honesty is for the best right now. “Do you have the tools to get these off of me?”

“I’ve done it before.” The healer straightens a little bit, the calculating edge to his gaze even more obvious now. “Once they’re off, I want them as payment; cuffs and collar.”

He has to hesitate again. Without the bindings he’ll be trackable again, and if he doesn’t keep a hold of them he won’t be able to vanish again when he needs to. That makes him — _them_ — really vulnerable. Damian has no power, and he’s got enough that it will leak practically everywhere they go. Being easily trackable and without most offense is not a great combination. If he could just get Damian back his magic somehow, they’d be fine. Damian was a prince, he’ll have had all kinds of training on how to use his magic. He could disrupt trackers, hide them, and be able to fight off guards if they catch up.

"Is there _any_ way to disrupt the sealing?" he asks, with a small nod down towards Damian. "Or circumvent it somehow? Anything at all?"

"Theoretically," the healer says, after a moment of silence. "I can't guarantee that it will work, but there's a possibility that if I bind your magics together, it would allow him to use yours in place of his own."

"He doesn't have any magic," he points out, and the healer scoffs.

"Not real well read on the particulars of magic are you, Backlash?" He bristles, but the healer just rolls his eyes and says, "He has magic still. The brands — the seals they represent, specifically — lock it away from him. They disrupt the passageways in his body that allow him to use the magic that he inherently has. Think of it as a block from his brain to the source of his magic. It's still inside him, but inaccessible."

"And what exactly are you proposing then?"

"It's a simple enough ritual. I can bind the source of his magic and yours together. In regular patients, that would allow each of you to access and use each other's magic. In this case, theoretically, it should allow him to use yours in place of his own. I assume that he has the training to be at least moderately well versed in actually using that magic?" He nods, and the healer gives an echoing nod and continues, "Then it should work. I can't promise it, but there are no documented ways that I know of to circumvent branding seals. If there's a chance, this is it."

It _needs_ to happen.

"Fine," he agrees. "That, and healing, for the collar and cuffs. Deal?"

"Deal," the healer says. Almost too fast, which makes him a little bit wary, but it's a little too late to question any further now. "We'll start with your bindings. Once those are off I'll heal his fever and bind you two together. That should allow him, once he wakes, to use your magic to heal his own brands. That's more efficient than me doing it ahead of time, and it'll let you test the connection."

"Plus it's less work for you," he points out, and the healer gives a sharp smirk.

"I think you have enough distractions without making me do things that you can do yourself. If it doesn’t work, I’ll heal him then." The healer steps away from the table, and points him towards a couple of chairs set by a fireplace. "Sit down; I'll get my tools and get those off of you."

He obeys, a little reluctantly, but keeps careful track of the sounds in the house as the man leaves the room to collect whatever it is that he needs. The sounds he can hear — footsteps, the tap of metal against metal, and the rustle of fabric — are enough that he's not concerned that the healer is leaving to sell them out, and that's enough to stop him from getting up and following. It's only about a minute before the healer comes back anyway, with a couple of truly vicious looking metal tools that he winces at the sight of.

The healer takes the other chair, drags it closer, and then says, "Now, I’d hope that this is obvious, but do _not_ damage my house when I take these off.”

The snort comes unbidden, even as the healer takes grabs his arm and pulls him forward to the edge of the chair, to work on the cuff on his upper right arm. "I have better control than that."

"Your kind's not known for their control," is the counter.

He swallows away the anger, and manages to keep his voice mostly calm. "You have no _idea_ what kind of control we have. Just because most of us can't use our magic doesn't mean we can't control it."

"Well I'll believe that when I see it." The healer digs the point of one of the tools into a nearly invisible seam, and holds it pressed there as he picks up one of the others and lowers it down to press _that_ point into a spot almost exactly opposite. The healers fingertips flicker with magic, sliding down into the two metal tools as sharp sparks of green light, and he expects it to sting but instead the metal pops open and off his arm, just like that.

He stares, as the healer manually twists him to get at the other cuff. "Is that it?"

The healer glares at him for a second. "It might _look_ simple, but it's not. _You_ have no idea the kind of research that went into figuring out how to get off cuffs like these, that were specifically designed against tampering. You're supposed to have keys to get them off, and a very specific magical signature. It took a lot of time to figure it out."

The tools dig into separate points, another surge, and the second cuff comes off just as easily. He can feel the little surge of gut-twisting power in his chest, feel the way it _strains_ against the collar on his throat. It only itches right now, as it twists deep inside his bones, but he knows when that collar comes off it'll _burn_. He closes his eyes, drags in a deep breath, and stays still as the healer fiddles with the collar. He did this for years; he can do it again. He doesn't need the help of the bindings to control himself, they just made it easy for awhile. Time to step away from that now.

"Here we go," the healer says, and this time he can feel the way whatever magic is being used sinks into the collar, feel how it tingles against his skin before the _give_.

The magic is instant, rushing out from inside him, and he bares his teeth and _ruthlessly_ fights it back down. It rages beneath his skin, burns like he knew it would, like he remembers, but he curls his hands to fists, lets his shoulders and back tense, and _keeps_ it inside him. It's like another force altogether, like it's not even part of him, but practice makes perfect in this case. He drags it back to deeper inside of him, ignores how it feels like his skin is going to peel off his bones from the strength of that power, and carefully opens his eyes again.

The healer is watching him, and he forces his hands to loosen as he straightens a bit, meeting the gaze. "I'm fine. Nothing I haven't dealt with before." The healer draws back a bit as he pushes himself to standing, but he looks more wary and less afraid, or disgusted. Good enough. "Him next," he says, nodding at Damian.

It doesn't take any more to get the healer moving again. He follows, and watches from a few feet away as the healer does… whatever it is that he's doing to heal Damian's fever. As irritating as the dismissive comment was, the healer was right; he doesn't know much about the particulars of magic. He knows how to avoid it, and he knows some very basic tricks, but past that… He doesn't and can't have the skill to do anything with magic beyond a couple of raw-power things, so there was no point in learning about it.

He can hold a shield for as long as he can handle the pain of it, and he can throw off some truly _massive_ blasts of power as long as he doesn't mind feeling like every bone in his arm is shattering under the stress, but anything past that is too delicate for him. Too precise. Most soldiers can do miles more than he can; all kinds of bindings, most have some level of healing knowledge, and some have an arsenal of other interesting tricks as well. He'd bet Damian has all of that and more, for it to be worth permanently sealing him.

That should be more than enough to get them through the rest of the trip, assuming that this whole idea works.

Whatever it is, exactly, that the healer is doing it seems to work. Damian's trembling eases, his breathing evens out to something slower and deeper, and the flush fades from his cheeks. When he reaches out to touch the brat's forehead, it's definitely much more in line with normal temperatures. The healer takes a few more minutes, and then steps back and shakes out his hands.

"Done. The infection's been cleared from his blood; there shouldn't be any complications to healing him once he awakens. Now, come here. Shirt off." He narrows his eyes a bit, and the healer gives him a look that screams 'really?' "This is a little bit more complicated than a little bit of hand waving. I need to draw runes on both of you to give the magic a channel to go through; would you mind not being obstinate about things you don't understand? Come here."

He does, and strips off the borrowed shirt to drop it on the table. He's expecting more staring at the scars on his chest, but the healer barely gives them a glance; he's probably seen stranger. Or at least, isn't phased by the idea of a bound, clearly escaped backlash having some scars.

The knife makes him balk a little bit, but the healer just takes his arm in a firm hand and cuts a thin line across the back of his hand before he can really protest. It bleeds freely, and he hisses but recognizes the necessity as the healer uses it to paint a series of runes across Damian's chest, up the center line of his stomach and then just over his heart, only about an inch from where the bandages start. He winces again, in sympathy this time, as the healer wipes the knife clean and then makes the same thin slice across the back of Damian's hand. The blood is still faintly warm as the healer puts the same runes on him, which is a gross feeling, but he perseveres.

"Alright," the healer says, once both sets of runes are finished. "This is going to feel pretty strange, but it should work."

"Should?" he repeats, sharp.

"Well, I've never done this on someone whose magic has been sealed." The healer puts fingertips to the rune over his heart, and then the other hand to Damian's. "In theory, it should work. If you want anything more solid than that you're out of luck."

He holds back the way he wants to sigh in frustration, and just inclines his head for a second. "Go ahead."

"You may wish to close your eyes," the healer says, as he sees the rush of magic start to slide down the man's arms. Green power, and it _stings_ as it hits his chest but it's warm too, and _invasive_.

"Why's that?" he asks through gritted teeth, as the foreign magic sinks in through his chest. A glance down shows him that the runes are starting to glow a sickly red-green mix, which he's not entirely sure of the origin of. _His_ power is red, when it comes out of him, but he doesn't feel any of it being used yet. Maybe it's just the blood?

"I've never been on the receiving end of this, but most people tend to get fairly dizzy, and having their eyes closed seems to help." The healer snorts, and he sucks in a sharp breath as something in him _opens_ and power slips past his control to come out underneath his skin again. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't make this harder by falling over."

It's a strange enough feeling — he's never really had someone else actively _try_ to reach inside of him — that he obeys without thinking about it, closing his eyes and tipping his head back a couple of inches as he clenches his jaw a little bit harder. It doesn't hurt any worse than he almost constantly hurts, but it's hard to distinguish if any of that pain is from what the healer is doing, or if it's just his magic not behaving like it 'should.'

Fingers tap against the runes over his heart, and then he feels them slide down to follow the path of the ones painted down the center of his chest. He can _feel_ his own magic following the path under his skin, like hot liquid. It takes a couple of seconds for it to get drawn down to where the runes start, near his navel, and then the fingers pull away from his skin and his magic _follows_. He gives a tight groan as it leaves him, and even through the burn he notices the absolutely _bizarre_ feeling of being able to actually _feel_ through that magic that’s drawn out of him.

He wants to open his eyes, wants to see exactly how it looks, but he resists. There's a sort of thread stretching out from him, drawing tight, and he can feel the path of it down from his heart and out into the air. And then he feels fingers press again to the runes on his chest, and a fraction of a second later a _rush_. He gasps, mouth falling open and one hand shooting out to brace against the table and keep himself standing. He can _feel_ …

He's connected to Damian, he can _feel_ phantom pain across his back and his chest in the same sort of pattern that Damian must feel, and he can feel the exhaustion in his bones, and he can feel the press of two different sets of fingers over his heart and he _can’t_ —

The fingers leave his chest, and the feeling lessens. He slumps a little bit, has to press harder against the table as his head bows. He can still feel the connection, can still feel his magic drawn out of him and stretched tight, but it's easing with every moment. Every second that passes he can feel less of the phantom pain, feels a little more energized and not nearly so exhausted. He can hear the footsteps as the healer steps away, and it feels like a thread snaps off of his magic, one he hadn't even realized was there.

Thing wobble, he goes lightheaded and distant for a second, and then the world solidifies. He's bowed down over the table with no memory of how he got there, with his head only a few inches from Damian's chest and he somehow knows that even before he opens his eyes. He doesn't know how, but the sight isn't surprising, and he can feel the connection between them with every breath, feel the pulse of it in his stomach.

"This…” he starts, but doesn't know how to finish.

"Will ease," the healer finishes for him. "It's intense now because the connection has just been made; give it a few minutes and if it's going to take, it'll settle. It looks fine so far, there shouldn't be any problems."

He nods, and carefully pushes up from the table. The healer is washing his hands off in a small basin of water. He starts to step away from Damian, to come closer, and something in his chest pulls _tight_ enough to make him gasp and slump back again.

"Yeah, you'll want to stay where you are," is the belated warning. "Until it eases, physical distance will be an issue." The healer dries off his hands, then turns to him and just looks, studying both of them. "Should be fine," he repeats, almost quiet enough to just be to himself. "I have other calls to make to a couple patients of mine. Your friend should wake within a dozen or so minutes, and you can see whether he can heal himself or not. If not, just wait here until I get back. If he can, I'd appreciate you being gone by the time I'm done. Leave the payment."

Not surprising. "Understood," he says, leaning back against the table and just watching as the healer steps away to start gathering things.

"Feel free to use the water to clean off, once you can move away from him. The runes don't need to stay past that; they're only there to guide the respective magics to where they need to be." The healer shoots him a sharp glance. "Another thing I shouldn't have to mention, but if you steal anything from me I'll put the guards right on your tail. I have a lot of friends in this place, and we can track you."

"I wouldn't," he reassures the man. Then he adds, "Thank you."

The healer snorts, but doesn't actually answer him.

He watches as the healer wanders around, collecting things into a bag that he honestly doesn't recognize except vaguely. He's watched a decent amount of healing being done, and been under more of it, but he never paid as close attention as he probably should of. After all, it's not like he can do any of it; his magic has far too rough of a touch for healing.

Eventually the healer seems ready (and changed into clothes that aren't obviously sleep ones), and heads for the door without even another word to him. Once it closes, he tests moving again. He draws carefully away from Damian, and nothing feels painful or strange so he moves towards the water.

He washes the drying blood off of his chest, and then wets the closest rag he can find and goes back to do the same for Damian; might freak the kid out if he wakes up with runes painted on his skin, especially in someone else's blood. He drags his shirt on after that, and collects the scarf to drape it around his chest and leave it there for the moment. No sense tying it up again until they're ready to leave, and he at least needs to know if Damian is going to be able to use magic again before they head out.

Healing is the most important part, but if Damian knows enough he might be able to hide them from the trackers, or something even better. He's a bit sketchy on the specifics of how magic-users hide from other people, since it's never applied to him.

He leaves Damian undressed for now, and leans against the table to wait for the kid to wake up. He doesn't know exactly how long it is, but he feels like it's longer than the dozen minutes that the healer said it would be.

Damian stirs, and then he watches as teal eyes blink open. A little hazed, still half-lidded, but not clearly delirious anymore, which is a good step up as far as he's concerned.

"Hey," he greets. "Welcome back."

Damian starts to push up, only to immediately fall back with a groan. "Where am I?" he demands, after a moment of breathless panting.

"I took you to a healer," he explains. "You had a nasty fever; the brands were infected."

"Well whatever healer you found is a very _poor_ one, as I do not feel remotely healed." Damian pushes up, more insistently this time, and he knows his help would be rejected so he doesn't even try. Damian makes it up, with a little bit of shaking and a clenched jaw, to sit on the table and look up at him.

“You alright?" he asks, tilting his head a little and trying to figure out if Damian can feel any of what he can. It's a whole lot less now, more a vague sense of being connected to an _other_ , but he can also feel a very faint phantom sting across his back so at least some of the earlier transfer of sensations is still there. Assuming that none of that is just his own body messing with him, which is also entirely possible.

Damian shifts a bit, and grimaces. "No worse than I did yesterday." He steps out of the way as Damian turns to slip off the table, and then Damian pauses at the edge of the table, hands on its edge and curling into it. The look on his face is confusion, is— Gone. "I do not remember much of when I woke," Damian admits, the moment apparently put aside. "But I do remember telling you not to take me to a healer."

He snorts, pointing Damian towards the pile of his shirt and scarf. "Well, no offense to what _you_ want, but I know how slums work better than you do. I'd guarantee that. Healers are perfectly fine to go to, as long as you pick the right one and you can pay them."

"And what did you pay?" Damian asks, not heading for the clothes just yet. "It had better not have been something we needed."

And just like that the irritation is back. God, he'd forgotten how much of a little _shit_ Damian is, after actually being concerned about him for a while there. "You know, whatever you think of me, I'm not as dumb as you apparently think I am. I've also got one hell of a lot more experience surviving out among the 'common' people than you do, especially while being hunted, so how about you back the hell off and accept that maybe I actually _do_ know what I'm talking about?"

"I know more of my grandfather— of Ra's al Ghul's hunters than you ever will, Backlash."

"You might be surprised," he spits back, and Damian looks at him _sharply_. It's a little bit too close for comfort for him, and he scoffs and steps away. "What I traded, was my own collar and cuffs, brat. He took them off and kept them, in exchange for healing you, and binding us so you could use my magic."

Damian freezes in place, and he watches the play of expression over the brat's face. Shock, something like fear, _anger_ , and then Damian raises a hand and presses it to his own chest, eyes closing for a moment. He watches, a little confused but mostly still just _irritated_ as Damian takes in a sharp breath and then leans back against the table, the hand still on it clenching down hard enough that the wood creaks.

"What have you _done_?" Damian hisses, eyes opening and glaring up at him in _fury_.

He feels something similar stir in him, and he doesn't like the tone, doesn't like how utterly ungrateful the kid is for his help or protection so he embraces it. "I saved your _life_ ," he spits back, stepping forward to box Damian in against the table. "I asked for a way to circumvent the sealing and the healer offered this. Now, if you hadn't pushed yourself so hard yesterday that _this_ happened, maybe I would have asked first, but since you _did_ it was up to me and I made the fucking choice. Stubborn, arrogant, little _bastard;_ why can't you just say thank you like every other person would?"

"Thank you?" Damian snarls back, not at all cowed by his proximity. "You had us _bound_ instead of a simple healing."

"So you can use my magic in place of your own. I didn't just do it for fun! You want to heal yourself? _Do_ it!"

“Fine!”

Damian inhales, there’s a twist in the center of his chest that he did _not cause_ , and then _pain_ burns its way down his spine and through his ribs. He arches, shouts and then chokes on it, and his knees buckle underneath him. Hitting the ground barely registers, he just knows that he _hurts_ and that the pull of magic out of the center of his chest is not his own, is not under his control. He can’t _stop_ it.

Then it _does_ stop, abruptly, and he folds over and almost falls onto his side, would have, if he didn’t catch himself with both hands. He breathes hard, and he can hear the equally hard breath from above him.

“ _There_ ,” Damian spits. “Are you satisfied?” The bandages hit the ground next to him, and Damian snarls, “We’re bound together, as _permanently_ as the seals you were so eager to get around. I am _locked_ to you for as long as we both live, Backlash. We cannot separate, we cannot leave each other, and it cannot be _undone_. Do you understand what you’ve done now?!”

He shoves out a deep breath, dragging himself together and getting to his feet to meet that fury with his own. “That _hurt_ ,” he growls, eyes narrowed.

“You _deserve_ it.” Damian steps forward, and his gaze skitters along the freshly-healed scars of the brands. Not erased, but no longer open and painful.

“I didn’t _know_. I was offered an option that would make us more than sitting targets, and I took it!”

Damian is right in front of him, almost touching, and snarls, “And you were too naïve to ask for details before committing.”

He pushes forward and forces Damian back a step, back against the table, as he bares his teeth. “I am _not naïve_. Watch your fucking mouth, brat.”

“Make me, _freak_.”

Another twist and he can feel that _shock_ of pain again. He yelps, draws back, and Damian’s hands close in his shirt and yank him back in.

He doesn’t think, he just _reacts_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, a note for this one! **This chapter has mutual dubcon bordering on noncon.** Tread carefully.
> 
> (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This chapter is home to: Dubcon, Headaches/Migraines, Skeletons in the Closet, and Haunted.

He _slams_ Damian back against the table with a hard shove, lunging forward to follow as he grabs the brat’s arms, bending him back over the table. Damian snarls, hands splaying out flat against his chest to try and shove him back, but he bears his weight down and Damian falls, head hitting the table with a hard _crack_.

The hands on his chest twist into the cloth beneath them, and he can feel the twist of his magic again, feel it pull out of him, scraping against his veins. Damian’s fingers feel like brands when one grabs at the back of his neck, and he can feel the heat sink into his skin, feel the pain and the magic intertwining and slamming back into him.

He knows, distantly, it should hurt even more than it does; he knows he should be able to smell his flesh sizzling, he should be literally _burning_.

“You think you can use my own magic on me?!” he almost shouts, digging his nails into Damian’s arms. The heat is building under his skin, like a fire _demanding_ to be let out again. “You stupid little _brat_ ; you have no idea how much _power_ I have!”

He lets it go. It slices out of him, slams into Damian in a shockwave, and the kid arches away from the table and shouts, sharing his pain for just a moment, sharing—

Breaking the hold on one of his arms, kicking a leg out from under him and _yanking_ him down as he falls off balance. His now free hand slams into the table to catch himself, and Damian is surging up underneath him. It looks like a headbutt, and he angles himself to take the least impact, and then Damian’s _mouth_ is crashing into his and for some reason he’s meeting it. The brat bites at his lips and he slams him into the table again in punishment, prompting a gasp and giving him enough opportunity to take his mouth to Damian’s throat.

He bites down hard enough to draw a yelp, and Damian’s hand claws at the back of his neck. He can barely feel the sting underneath all the rest of the pain and sensation. That heat is still blazing beneath his skin, and he gets his foot back underneath him so he can pull back and yank Damian up with him. Still with his hips pinned back to the table but more vertical now, so he can let go of the kid’s arm and drag his fingers across the ridges of muscle and the darker-toned skin of his still bare chest.

Damian arches forward against him, and he can feel the press of a thigh between his own, bucks into it and growls into the kid’s throat at the sensation. There’s a matching hardness pressed up against the thigh he now has shoved between the kid’s legs, and the kid is grabbing at his waist with the hand not still curled around the back of his neck, fingers sliding up and underneath the layers of his clothing and digging nails into his skin.

He grinds into Damian, letting go of the skin between his teeth only long enough to find a second place to bite down, closer to the curve of a shoulder. Damian grunts, drags him in closer and then he feels teeth against his own neck, biting down hard enough that he feels the sharp sting of skin giving.

Heat, _pain_ , the hard press of Damian’s body against his own, and it’s all so unfamiliar that he finds himself shivering, desire building low in his gut and _fast_. Faster than he ever expected.

Damian's hips are rolling against his, and he gives a low moan as he lets go of Damian's neck, breathing hard against it instead. He drops his hands, grabs the round curve of Damian's ass to force him to go harder, at _his_ pace. There's a vague thought in his head that he should press for more, take more, have _more_ , but they grind together and that kills the intrusive thought. Damian is giving high whines almost directly into his ear, clutching at his waist with sharp nails and dragging him in with every rock of motion, and then he feels the brat shudder, feels him arch forward and _shake_.

The kid's hips jerk, out of rhythm, and he snarls and yanks harder at his hips to force him back into the pattern, even as Damian gives a strained cry and rakes nails down across his side.

That, of _all_ things, is what kicks him over the edge. He muffles a shout by biting Damian's shoulder, pulling the brat closer to him as he grinds into the thigh pressed against him and comes, wet and messy inside his all-too-present clothing. Damian jerks against him, giving a softer cry and all but clutching at him, as if he thinks he's about to move away.

His jaw relaxes as the tension in his body drains, and he tilts his head to breathe against Damian's throat. Lets his hands, a moment later, come up to wrap around the kid's back and hold him close. Damian seems willing to stay, if the grips on his neck and waist are any kind of indicator.

The heat is bleeding from beneath his skin, as if it was never there. He breathes slow, rolling each of his shoulders as he eases into the relative lack of pain, and the comfort of another warm body against his. Another—

_Damian_.

He jerks away, staggering back a few steps on unsteady legs. Damian gives a protesting sound, but then those teal eyes open, look at him, and he can see the _sudden_ realization in them. A sharp breath, and Damian winces, one hand flying up to touch the harsh bite marks on the side of his throat and top of his shoulder. He draws in a harsh breath too, and can feel how the sting across the back of his neck and his left side; knows he'll find scratches, if he looks. Not to mention the bite on _his_ neck.

"What the fuck was that?" he asks, voice shaking just a little bit.

Damian is at _least_ most of a decade younger than him, an annoying brat that he can barely _stand_ , and on top of that he's… No one ever wants to actually touch him, let alone do anything more. Not like this. Out of the tiny number of people that actually are willing to come near him, the percentage that would actually be interested in _fucking_ is nonexistent. Twenty-eight years of life have taught him that more than enough times.

The chances that _Damian_ would be interested… And that doesn't even matter because _he's_ definitely not interested. Whatever this was, it wasn't natural. Damian is _attractive_ , sure, but he's frustrating and arrogant and too young even if he's probably — fuck, _hopefully_ — actually old enough to make those choices himself.

Damian looks equally shaken, and isn't quite meeting his eyes. "I— I do not know. I did not mean to—”

"Neither did I," he rushes to agree. "Absolutely not."

There's a moment of tense silence.

"There was a feeling…” he starts, slowly. "Like…”

"Heat," Damian fills in, discomfort clear in his voice. "Heat beneath my skin; ready to _burst_. It was after I—” Damian cuts off, but he can fill in the rest.

"Maybe you shouldn't use my magic for right now. Until… we figure that out." Damian gives a halting nod, and the silence strains tight between them before he breaks it with, "We need to get out of town; the faster the better. The next town is a few days away, so… we'll have time to work it out."

Damian seizes onto the alternate topic with apparent enthusiasm. "Yes. We will need supplies then; enough to see us through the trip. Cloaks too; scarves will not do for the desert nights."

Honestly, he's glad to leave the awkwardness behind too, at least for the moment. "That could be a little tricky. We don't have much to trade, and definitely not enough for that much. We'll need to steal some, or—”

"Not a problem," Damian interrupts. "The second time I used your—” An awkward pause, and Damian swallows and then continues, "I cast a rudimentary cloaking spell over myself. It will not hold up to royal trackers, or guards, but it should fool all those of lesser skill. I can reinforce it once we have time, and space. So, I should be able to raid a home for whatever it is that we need. Or a few, if one does not contain all that we require."

That's… handy. He forgets, a lot of the time, how helpful magic actually is when it comes to being on the run, given the fact that he has to go without.

"Alright," he agrees, instead of commenting. "Then we'll head over into nicer parts of town, pick up what we need, and head out as soon as possible."

"Very well," Damian says with a nod, and then finally actually meets his eyes. "There is no sense revisiting the details of this… incident. We will not speak of it again."

He shoves out a breath, and then sort of uselessly tries to shift to a position where the wetness within his clothing is at _all_ comfortable. "Yeah, agreed. Let's just get out of here."

Damian gives a second stiff nod, and then — after a moment's hesitation — stalks across the room to collect the discarded pile of the top half of his clothing. He jerks into motion himself, moving to collect the mostly empty bag from the floor near the table, and pointedly not looking as Damian puts his shirt back on, and then wraps the headscarf around just his neck, so that every trace of the bites is covered. When he see it though, he forces himself to fix his own scarf, wrapping it up over the top of his head to hide his hair once again, and then make sure that it covers the bite on his neck as well.

For right now, having his face exposed makes it look less like he's hiding something. Assuming that Damian actually _is_ hidden like he believes he is.

He kind of really hopes so.

"Ready?" he asks, after a few moments of silence, as they both stand there.

Instead of answering, Damian strides forward and opens the door to the healer's home. He rolls his eyes, but follows.

"A _yes_ would have worked too."

* * *

Collecting supplies is easy enough. Damian _is_ invisible, which is tremendously useful, if a little awkward in the more public areas of the town, before they leave. Damian takes to walking just about directly behind him, so that no one attempts to just walk right through him, and he gets shouldered with the bags too, since it turns out that Damian's spell will get less reliable the more it's forced to hide. Damian is confident that he can work it to be more efficient once they're alone though.

They _don't_ talk about whatever the hell happened in the healer's room, and he's kind of glad because he's maybe dwelling on it a little too much. He's never…

He's had his own hand, but he'd never been interested in even trying to approach anyone else; rejection was too certain. It wasn't necessarily easy, but he stands by the decision that he'd rather be physically unsatisfied than get hurt again, and again, and _again_. He's sure as hell not interested in trying to get anyone to like him well enough that they'd be alright with touching him, and more importantly, him touching them. He's had a friend or two before, while he was with Bruce. That was good enough.

Once they're out of the village it's easier. Damian can walk next to him again, and without the brands slowing him down it turns out that Damian actually is strong enough for extended travel at a good pace, which is a relief.

It turns out that Damian was also right about being able to strengthen the cloaking spell. At least, he assumes so. Damian does it the first night they're out, and they're both wary about the draw on his magic, but apart from hurting like a _bitch_ it doesn't seem to actually do anything. A little flush of heat, but he tamps it the hell down and that seems to be the end of it.

Which is another good thing. It means that Damian can — at least theoretically — use his magic as necessary and not have to worry about them suddenly jumping each other like a pair of horny kids. Not that he doesn't… think about that too.

Damian doesn't talk to him all that much, but that's not surprising. He can't while there's anyone else on the road to pass, and he doesn't seem interested in talking for the rest of it. He kind of agrees, and the silence doesn't grate on him as badly as it could. He's used to silence.

Sleep doesn't come easily, not with those thoughts in his head, but it does eventually come. The second day passes just fine too, which leaves them only about a half day's travel from the next town, but pushing through the night invites them getting lost, or set upon by people that they'd then have to kill. Easier to stop and camp, even if it's a relatively short distance left.

The second night's sleep is… worse.

He doesn't realize quite how bad it is — images of blood and pain and the _screams_ in his head — until he's shaken awake, and he jerks his eyes open to the sound of Damian shouting down at him; almost snarling.

He gasps in a breath, feels the magic rising through his veins, feels it tearing out of him in little sparks that burn on the way out. He almost chokes for a moment, but then he rolls away from Damian and to the side, digging his hands into the sand that's just off of his bedroll and taking in another deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to get control of himself. Tries to drag the magic back beneath his skin where it belongs.

"Jason—” Damian starts, and he _snarls_ back at the kid.

The nightmare is still there, fighting for attention, but he shoves it away, pushes up on his arms and hangs his head down between them, focusing on the _real_ sensations of the sand between his fingers, of the sweat-dampened cloth clinging to his back, of the tangle of his cloak around his legs. It takes a lot longer than he would like, but eventually he fights it back down, locking the steel bands of his control back around it and forcing himself to breathe in long, slow breaths to keep that control.

Then he allows himself to move, to turn back and raise his legs, so he can press his now _aching_ skull against his knees. One of the nastiest side effects of his messed up magic, even past the way it hurts if he uses it, or if he loses control. Even if he _does_ manage not to bleed it with every breath, it costs him.

"That seemed to be an unpleasant dream," Damian says, voice a little too interested to be quite matter of fact.

He grunts agreement, raising a hand to press against the side of his head and grip his own hair; physical touch to remind himself that the pounding of his skull is just the price he has to pay to avoid worse pain. If he can just handle the pain for a little bit longer, eventually it will fade. Better the pain than the alternative.

"What was it about?" Damian asks, and he grits his teeth for a moment except that makes it worse. "I doubt that someone like you is afraid of all that much, so I imagine that it must be memories, hm?"

"Not your business," he manages to spit, rubbing at the side of his head and then pressing his forehead harder against his knees. "Go back to sleep."

"I doubt that's going to happen. You were throwing off magic in your sleep; how far would it have gone if I had not woken you? Would you have harmed those nearby? Set fire to our belongings?"

"Fuck off, Damian."

Damian scoffs, then makes a strange clicking sound with his tongue, clearly something of disdain. "Good to know that the more stressed you appear the more bluntly rude you manage to be. I didn't think you could get much less articulate, but apparently I was wrong."

God, he wants to _strangle_ the kid. He weathers another hard pulse of pain from his head, focusing inwards on keeping his magic held tight. No matter how irritated he is, he doesn't want to lash out and hurt the brat. Not really, anyway. Not like that. His magic is fatal too often. There's a pretty strong difference between wanting to hurt Damian and wanting to _kill_ him, and he hasn't crossed that line yet.

If he could just have time to himself he could handle this; he could get himself fully under control again, handle the pain, and push the nightmare — it _is_ a memory; Damian is right about that much — to the back of his mind where it belongs. He can't get rid of it, even if most times he wishes he could, but he can at least do his best not to think about it as often as possible. Hasn't he earned at least that much? Weren't Ra's' cells enough of a punishment for what he's done? Can't he have _one_ easy thing in his life?

"You are rude regardless, however, so I suppose I should not be surprised. A backlash like you must have many memories he wishes to forget." A pause, and then Damian's voice sharpens to something almost cruel as he adds, "Though I imagine a lifetime of hate would make you somewhat immune to feeling any fear from rejection such as that. What could be so bad that it would cause you such pain, _Backlash?_ What was done to you?"

He twists, turning on the kid as he snaps, "It's not your _fucking_ business, kid. Back the hell off." His head _throbs_ , and he can't help the low groan that escapes from between his teeth, or the way that he has to press his hands against his head and squeeze his eyes shut just to try and manage it.

"Or _what?_ " Damian's voice grates against his ears; mocking and dismissive. "You are clearly in no condition to do any damage, for whatever reason. Do the memories _hurt?_ Or is it something that you deserve, for what you've done?"

If he thought he could stand without staggering, and if he thought he had anywhere else to go, he'd be leaving. But the best he can manage is to force his eyes open and glare at Damian, to meet the sneer with a snarl and try to just _keep control_. He can't quite manage words, not against the ache of his skull and his tenuous control of his own magic. He just gives a wordless sound of anger instead, tightening his grip on his magic so that he doesn't attack.

"A wordless beast now, Jason?" Damian scoffs and sits back. "I should expect no better from your kind. Freak of—”

"I'm _dying!_ " he shouts, and the outburst surprises him almost as much as it surprises Damian. He swallows, grinds his hand into one of his temples and spits a curse between his lips, squeezing his eyes shut for a second.

There's blessed, easy silence for a couple moments, until Damian echoes, "Dying?"

He just can't… He _can't_ keep the pain and his magic under control, and fight with Damian at the same time. He can't.

"Yes," he admits, quieter now. It's easier, when he's not resisting so much. He can manage words. "Don't actually know much about the freaks, do you?"

Damian moves, and he opens his eyes a little bit to look at the moonlit form that's shifted a little bit backwards. He can only sort of make out Damian's expression, and he hasn't got the spare focus to figure it out right now, but it looks almost like surprise. He lets his gaze drop to the sands, and curls his fingers in his own hair.

"You are born… malformed," Damian says, and his voice is uncertain. "You are not capable of control over the amount of magic that you possess."

"I can control it," he corrects. "There's something wrong in us. Like… Like our bodies aren't built to handle magic. When we use it, or let it out, it damages us. Physically. Most backlashes burn out before they're half my age." He swallows, gives a thin groan at a particularly nasty pulse. "But— But holding it in doesn't work either. There's no _limit_ on our magic, not like normal people. It doesn't vent like it should when bodies reach their capacity, it just builds, and builds, and _builds_ and keeping it in… It's killing me slower, at least." He spits a bitter bark of laughter. "There's no good option. Never was."

More silence, and then Damian points out, "You did not seem to have this problem before. You did not seem in any extraordinary pain."

"Seals," he answers shortly. "The bindings kept my magic from me; I couldn't access it, and it couldn't hurt me. Prison's supposed to be a terrible place, but I… It was the only place that I didn't have to live with all of _this_." A nasty thought rears its head, and he makes the effort to actually look up at Damian to ask, "This binding thing; when I die, is that going to kill you too, or—?"

"Don't be dramatic," Damian says, with a scoff. "If I recall correctly it will be… painful. But I can handle pain." Sharp curiosity, as Damian asks, "How did you end up in those dungeons?"

He hesitates, but, well, to hell with it. What's Damian possibly going to do with his dirty laundry? If the kid really wants to hurt him with that, then he's got plenty of painful truths to throw right back. It's not like there's anyone the kid could tell that matters and doesn't already know.

"There was… an accident. I was attacked, in your city's main square. Normally I can handle that but it was a group, and one of them came out of nowhere, hit me with... something hard, back of the head." He takes in a shallow breath, as much as he can manage past the headache, to brace himself against the facts. "I was stunned. I tried to warn them, but they were laughing, and I couldn't get control. I'm sure you know what happens when you injure backlashes instead of killing them."

Damian nods, and offers, "Devastation."

Good word.

"It was handled relatively quietly, as far as I know. There was never a trial, or an official sentencing or anything. They told me that I—” He swallows again, closes his eyes and forces another breath. "Three attackers, and four bystanders that didn't get far enough away. Lots more injured."

"And you were simply left in prison for that?"

He tries to shrug, winces, and lets his shoulders fall again. "Maybe they didn't want to risk trying to kill me. I don't know. The guards would talk with me — most of them, anyway — but never anything really important."

Damian shifts, and then sits down a bit more firmly, sinking out of the kneel to cross his legs instead. "More likely, you were saved as a weapon. To be set loose upon the enemies of the al Ghuls and set off, to decimate their ranks. Pure destructive capability like that is not to be wasted with execution."

Another bark of laughter escapes him, but then he hisses and groans at the resulting pain.

"You say that you can control your magic?" Damian asks, after his reaction is done and he's in less obvious pain.

"Yeah," he confirms. "A little. I can do targeted blasts; shields. Anything more detailed than that... hurts too much. Maybe I could if I really tried, but it's not worth it."

Damian studies him, and he doesn't even try to hold that gaze for longer than a couple seconds. He tilts his head back into his knees, and only stirs when Damian shifts and moves _closer_. Then he narrows his eyes, watching cautiously as Damian crosses the several feet between them and kneels at his side. A hand reaches out, touching the center of his back, and he pulls away just a bit.

"What are you—?"

Damian shushes him, and he _almost_ snaps at that before the kid pushes the hand up his back to his neck instead, fingertips the only thing touching his skin, and says, "I think I may be able to fix the pain."

He stares for a second, and then says, "It's not a physical injury. You can't just heal it away. The last thing I need is _more_ pain; leave me alone."

"No, the problem is that you have accumulated too much magic, yes? More than you can hold?"

He hesitates, but admits, "Yes."

Damian nods, and then he can feel the twist in his chest, sucks in a breath to say _no_ , but— But it doesn't hurt. He watches, stunned, as Damian's head tilts back for a moment, a controlled exhale leaving him before it bows again. Then the hand not resting fingertips against the back of his neck extends, and his gaze lowers to it as red magic — _his_ magic — seeps from it like a fog, like blood spreading across the ground. He can feel the connection at the back of his neck, feel the dull, odd twist of his power within his chest, and he…

He eases his tight control of his power, and Damian gasps, the seep becoming more like a flow. The headache fades from his skull, fainter with every breath, and he tilts his head back into the fingers at his neck and _relaxes_. His eyes close, his mouth parting just a little, and the tension leaves his back as he lets his hands lower away from his head. His breath comes easier, and he... God, he doesn't _hurt_. He doesn't feel scraped raw and stitched back together anymore. His magic is there, but it’s being guided away from him and going _smoothly_.

He loses track of time, but eventually Damian's fingers grip the back of his neck, and there comes the command, "Control yourself again."

It feels odd, after the relaxation, but he carefully takes control of his magic again. It feels… small, in a way that's entirely unfamiliar. Containable, instead of the massive ball he always fought to keep held within.

Damian lets go of his neck, and it _does_ burn a little bit, but not anywhere near as badly as it did before. "You…” he starts, but doesn't know how to finish.

Damian sits down heavily beside him, and gives a sharp exhale. "I— My former aunt framed me for the murder of her unborn child, and the assault on her that caused it. I had no alibi, and it was done masterfully enough that my grandfather proclaimed me guilty before the entire court. My mother demanded mercy for me, and it was granted. In a way. I was to be branded, sealed, stripped of my family's name and all that I possessed, and then released. In some ways, execution would have been kinder."

The expression that he expects is pain, and certainly there is that, but most of Damian's face is hidden behind steel composure. "You have a chance at a new life," he points out, and Damian scoffs.

"What life?" The kid pulls away, getting to his feet and crossing arms over his chest before he looks down again. "If I am to be stuck with you I would prefer you are not crippled. When it is too much tell me, and I will draw the extra from you so you are useful again."

Damian's turned away, before he manages to say, "Thank you."

A little twitch, and Damian doesn't turn around, but after a moment he offers, "There are worse people to be trapped with. True murderers, for one; I do not believe the deaths were precisely your fault. And… you did save my life."

It's… almost nice. "I—” He swallows, and then finishes, "I am sorry, about the binding. If I knew, I wouldn't have agreed to it."

"I know." Damian glances back, and then scoffs again and looks away. "It does make a difference, that it was mere ignorance, and not targeted cruelty. Had you truly meant it that way, I would have killed you by now. Better to risk the pain that comes with severing it than to be trapped with someone cruel enough to bind me against my will on purpose."

"Good to know," he says, and then carefully gets to his feet. Damian looks over his shoulder for that. "I'll get you to your father," he promises. "I know this didn't exactly start out great, and that there have been some… bad turns, but I want you to know that I'll get you there. I swear."

Damian hesitates, and then that teal gaze dips to the sand at their feet. "Thank you," Damian murmurs, quiet enough he almost doesn't hear it. And then, louder, "I'll hold you to that, Jason."

He nods, and then tilts his head towards Damian's bedroll. "Get some sleep, Damian. I'll see you in the morning."

"Try not to wake me up again," is the parting comment, as Damian 'obeys.'

He shakes his head, but lies back down on his own bedroll, pillowing his head on one folded arm and trying to fall back into, hopefully, better dreams.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Sorry this one's up a little late. My phone uh... died, and I had to get a new one, so the last few days have been utterly crazy. But now everything is mostly settled, and I can get back to actually working and making sure I do everything I need to. (Also our washer is broken; it's been a bad week for electronics in our house.) Anyway, hope you enjoy!
> 
> (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This chapter is home to: Invisibility, Poisoning, and Nervous Breakdown.

Things get easier through the next couple weeks. They take — steal — enough in the next town to get them by for longer, and start taking back roads and alternate routes so that they run into less people. Damian’s invisibility spell turns out to be extremely helpful. He does wonder about why _he_ can see past it, and so does Damian, but he definitely doesn’t know enough about magic to make a real guess. Damian’s best one is that it’s something to do with the fact that it’s his magic that was actually used to create the spell to begin with.

Damian experiments, in the moments where they have nothing better to do — which, honestly, is most of the time — and finds out that the connection between them is stable enough that Damian can pull his magic without actually hurting him, which is a relief. Useful or not, he’s not sure he could have dealt with being in pain like that every time Damian needed or wanted to use his power. Especially if, or when, Ra’s’ guards catch up with them.

They experiment with distance too, and the complexity of the spells. He worries about that a little, but Damian seems convinced that their initial lead without magic would have thrown the hunters enough off their tracks that it’s decently safe to leave more traces of them now. Especially because — Damian believes — the trackers will have every reason to believe that they are still without magic. He’s not sure he totally agrees, but he’s also not willing to fight about it. And Damian _is_ right; they’re stuck together for the foreseeable future, so learning how to manage the bond between them is a necessity.

Damian’s _also_ right that if the trackers catch up with them, it would be much better if Damian could actually fight them.

It turns out that they have to be fairly close for Damian to access his magic to start with, but that can be strained a bit after the initial draw, as long as Damian — he’s a little fuzzy on the details, since it only sort of involves him — keeps the connection constant, or holds onto what he’s taken. Damian can also take power from him while he’s asleep, which was a _weird_ thing to find out.

There doesn’t seem to be any limit to the amount of power that Damian can take, and honestly he barely feels the draw most times, except for that now-familiar twist in the center of his chest. Damian, one night, lays out a whole series of cloaking spells around the two of them, and then tries out with just how much power he can fling around. It’s… impressive, to see someone else doing it with actual control. Damian seems pretty pleased with it.

There’s a slight feedback connection between them. It takes him awhile, but he figures out that he can feel a dull echo of what Damian’s feeling. Emotions, and physical sensation too, which explains how the fight in the healer’s place… progressed as it did. The rest of it is explained too; after enough experimentation, it becomes clear that part of the feedback of Damian taking his magic is a sort of… heat. It feels _good_ , when it’s not on the heels of, well, getting it forcibly dragged out of him.

Granted it was nice then too, in a different sort of way. Now it’s softer, more like the warmth of sitting by a fire than the painful burn of actually _touching_ the fire.

Things get better between them too. Both because Damian isn’t irritated with him, and because he realizes the kid has more to him than just 'arrogant ex-prince with a serious attitude problem.' Damian's willingness to help drain his magic, even _before_ it starts to get painful enough to be debilitating, proves that the kid has at least a bit of kindness to him. He's clever too, skilled, and alright, yeah, definitely arrogant but not necessarily excessively. There's a fine line between confidence in skill and arrogance; most of the time Damian doesn't _quite_ pass it.

Damian doesn't offer that much about himself, but when he does it seems to be almost in payment for things that he shares, like the kid thinks that he owes information for every piece he gets. It gives him a little bit of information about Damian, so he's not complaining even if he thinks it's a little weird.

They can't stay on back roads forever though. Eventually, the brief passes through minuscule towns, and the oasis' that the roads are built to take advantage of, isn't enough. He hasn't told Damian, but he knows the path they're on just as well as Damian does, and the last couple of weeks to get to Bruce's hidden base are almost entirely desert. They're going to need a whole lot more supplies than they have, and probably something to carry them. A cart, or a couple of horses, ideally. It would certainly be a shorter trip if they can get a hold of horses.

All of that requires a bigger city though.

He angles them back towards a main one, at the edge of the desert stretch they'll need to cross. Damian doesn't say anything, so maybe he assumes that he's just guessing the right direction. (Or, says a sarcastic part of his mind, maybe Damian doesn't know it at all and is just guessing himself.)

Getting into the city is a lot easier without Damian — technically — at his side. He's been doing this part of things for a long time, and he knows how to go unnoticed. Plus, coming in from a back road and covered with the dust and sand of a journey, it draws basically no attention that he's got both a cloak on, as well as a scarf drawn over his mouth and nose. Damian, as before, stays at his back, following in his footsteps. He forces himself not to look back and make sure that Damian stays with him; looking at someone who isn't there will look weird to the people around him. Besides, if he focuses, he can almost _feel_ Damian at his back. That helps with his worry.

He guides them both off to a less populated section of the city; not down into the residential areas or the lower class, but just to the business section that _isn't_ quite so overwhelmed. Middle class mediocrity. A random traveler getting food with other random travelers is nothing to be remarked on.

Finding an inn isn't hard, not with his practice, but before he heads in he slips off to the side and leans against the wall. Damian steps in beside him, face bare and gaze on him, though it darts out into the passing traffic on occasion. To disguise the reason for pausing, he makes a show of shaking the accumulated sand off of his cloak and boots, gaze lowering to focus on that and voice quiet so no one else will hear him speaking. The scarf covers any mouth movement, which is nice.

"We'll grab food here, then resupply and head out again. You need me to bring you food?" They had a brief problem in a smaller town when Damian picked something up and his spell didn't quite cover it in time. The locals were sort of freaked out by the levitating and then vanishing item, though he managed to smooth it over.

"I will come in with you, then slip out once I have the food. I should be able to hide my acquisition of it fairly smoothly, as long as I stay close to you. Is that acceptable?"

"Yeah, of course."

Damian shifts a bit closer to him, then adds, "We are coming close to my father's territory; unofficial as it is. We will need to head out into the desert, towards the mountains, and that will require more supplies than we have obtained so far. We… may not be able to carry it all."

"Yeah," he agrees, "I was thinking a cart. It would be good if we could get a couple horses, but that could be difficult. Draw more attention." He straightens back up, adjusting the weight of the bag — significantly lighter than it has been, now that most of their supplies are gone — over his shoulder.

"Go retrieve food for yourself," Damian orders. "Save me some for later, and I will take a look around the surrounding area and see what I can find in the way of supplies. I do not want to spend longer in this city than necessary."

He doesn't really want to let Damian wander off alone (what if the cloaking spell fails, or someone spots him anyway?), but he does agree that it doesn't really make sense to have Damian just stand out here and waste time when he could be scouting. It'll be faster if they already have some idea of where to go to steal things, especially the larger things like whatever they're going to use for transportation of supplies. If Damian can find any of that ahead of time, they'll be able to leave sooner.

"I’ll wait for you here," he says, keeping his voice just as quiet. "Good luck."

Damian scoffs, probably at the idea of needing luck, and then turns to leave. He turns the opposite direction, and heads into the inn. It's not full, exactly, but it has more people than most of the smaller places they've been into on this journey. There are a couple of mostly empty tables, but no completely empty ones, and most of them are almost entirely full. He pulls his expression into something a little more friendly than the calculating, studying look it tends to get if he just leaves it alone, and then reaches up with his free hand and pulls the scarf down to bare his jaw as he heads further in between the tables. As long as no one recognizes him as a backlash, this should go smoothly enough, and they shouldn't. Even with the cloak flipped back, which is the next thing he does, the scarf is still wrapped up over his hair and hiding his streak.

His streak, god how he hates it sometimes, is the only thing that actually betrays what he is. Unless magic comes into play, anyway.

He gets up to the bar, slipping between two people at actual seats and leaning into the wood, waiting for the owner — or whoever it is behind the counter — to actually notice him. It only takes a couple seconds, and he gives a small smile and orders a small selection of food; he can grab more for Damian on the way out. The coins Damian's stolen from various places aren't all that much, but it's more than enough for this, especially now that he doesn't have to overpay on account of what he is.

He leans against the bar as he waits, and turns to look at the rest of the inn to decide where to sit. Ideally, he'd like somewhere that his back isn't to anyone and everyone, but that's more specific than he can manage right now. He'll just have to deal with a table that's closer to the wall and have that be good enough. It should be fine; this isn't the first time he's masqueraded as a normal person by far.

Other things Damian doesn't know, although that's going to come up… soon. At the least, as soon as they get to Bruce's stronghold.

Until then, Damian doesn't need to know exactly what he is, or how he knows what he does. Let him assume that it's just because he's lucky, or had friends that taught him to fight, or whatever. Let him hopefully _not_ assume that it's because he's a spy with the resistance. Or was, until the accident in Ra's' main city. Well, less spy, more general information gathering. It's not a strange thing that backlashes travel all the time, so he lived on the road, gathered whatever information he could, and then ferried it back to Bruce.

It's hard to say whether Damian would trust him more or less if he knew any of that, and he's not really willing to find out just yet. Easier to let Damian just assume whatever he has until they actually reach Bruce, and then let it all come out then.

He hears the clunk of his food being dropped, and turns around to get it. The man to his right is sliding off his stool as he does, and their shoulders collide, spinning him back away from the counter. His foot slides back to brace, keeping him balanced, but the other man stumbles a little.

“Are you alright?” he asks, thinking better of the steadying hand he almost automatically extends.

The man gives a small laugh as he looks up at him, already smiling. “Yeah, yeah; I’m fine.” Then he gets looked up and down, and the man adds, "My, you're a big one, aren't you?"

He gives a small laugh in answer, and a crooked smile that's _almost_ not fake. "Yeah, it was a surprise to me too. Have a good day, sir."

A raised eyebrow, but the man echoes his well-wishing and then heads off into the inn. There's a slight unsteadiness to his steps, and he shakes his head a tiny bit before he turns back to his food. He can't catch the innkeeper's eye — he's off serving someone else now — so he just collects his food and accompanying drink and turns to head towards the table he'd decided on. Not as close to the wall as he'd like, but there are empty seats to either side of it, and only one table between him and the safety of the wall, so that will have to be good enough.

He's got some practice carrying an armful of things through places like this, which is probably the only reason he doesn't drop anything as he heads through the mild crowd and to the table. No one even gives him a look as he sits down, setting his food out in front of him and then pulling his bag down between his legs, where he can hold it with his knees and be sure that no one is going to be able to take it without him noticing.

The food is… good enough. It's not the best thing he's tasted, but it's also not the worst by far. Average price, average meal, nothing more than he'd expect. The drink is better though; it's been awhile since he was anywhere that was relatively safe enough to risk a drink with actual alcohol in it. One drink isn't going to affect him, but the familiar taste and the slight burn are welcome, especially after all of this traveling.

It's nice to be actually, entirely, full, and by the time he's finished his food he can feel the ease of it setting in. The slight lethargy, the unwillingness to move anytime soon, and the simple enjoyment of just having a full stomach. Not something he ever shook. It feels _good_.

He drains the last of his drink and then sets it aside, pushing the dishes away from him where they are almost immediately swooped away by the wandering server. He smiles just a little, watching her and then the people around him. Subtly, but it's nice to just be able to exist around other people without them knowing what he is.

He should be going, he knows that. There's something…

A yawn catches him by surprise, and his head ducks a little bit as he covers his mouth with one hand. The journey must have been more tiring than he thought, or something. Or having a nice, hot meal that he didn't have to cook is just the kind of luxury he wanted. Not luxury by anyone else's standards, but his are lower than most people's.

There's movement next to him, and he shifts his head to look as someone sits down right next to him, shoulder almost brushing his. The man from the bar; the one who collided with him. Not looking even remotely intoxicated anymore, but still with that smile, still friendly. A hand touches his shoulder, and he blinks up at the man, swallows and… there's something that's not right, something...

"Relax, kid," the man says, voice low and soothing and… "We're your friends, alright?"

"We're?" he echoes, and there's movement across the table, someone else sitting down and smiling at him too, another man he doesn't recognize.

"That's right," the man says, hand firm against the back of his shoulder. "We're friends. Your friends. You can trust us, I promise. There's nothing to worry about." He shifts a little bit, blinking heavier this time, struggling to pull his eyes open. "You're tired, I know. Come with us, kid; we'll get you to a nice, warm bed, alright?"

"I—” He shakes his head, scrubbing his hand along his jaw. "I'm meeting— I'm traveling with someone. He's waiting for me."

"We talked to him," the man across the table says, and he stares for a second before the man next to him squeezes his shoulder, sliding off of the bench and then offering him a hand to pull him up too.

"He's waiting for you, that's right. If you come with us we can take you to him; both of you can rest for a bit before you leave town. We're safe."

Something… There's something…

They're safe, yeah. He's— He's tired, and he can trust them, and everything will be fine. Just rest for a bit, then he can find Damian and… They can leave. It's just a small detour; it'll be safe. They're friends.

He takes the offered hand, and then both of them are there, helping him to his feet. One of them takes his bag, before he can even think about it, and the other braces a hand against his low back, guiding him, slowly, towards the door.

Just a bit of rest.

* * *

Damian huffs out a sigh and leans back against the wall of the inn. He's scouted the local area, found where there's a stable they should be able to pilfer horses from as well as different stalls and businesses that look as though they'll have the supplies that they need. It should be a simple enough job to restock, and then they can begin the last stretch towards his father's base.

He does not know the precise location, but… his mother had said to head for the mountains, and that his father's patrols would inevitably find him. So that is the advice he will follow.

Jason has been… remarkably helpful, considering. It still hurts, aches in a way, that the choice of bonding was taken from him, but it's not precisely Jason's fault. It _does_ let him access Jason's magic to use as his own, which was the intended result, and really the blame lies on whatever healer it was that his forced partner went to, for not explaining exactly what the procedure was. It is not a difficult jump to assume that Jason, as a backlash, would know little to nothing about any spellwork or magic beyond basics, and he is sure that if Jason had known the effects were going to be permanent, he would not have done it.

Despite being a freak of nature, skilled in ways that don't make sense, and blunt to the point of rudeness most times, Jason is not a cruel person. He's kind, actually, which is rather remarkable given how much hatred he must have faced in his time. He could certainly be bound to much worse people, and he must admit that having Jason's power to use as his own is… intoxicating.

Not just because of the feedback of sensation that loops through him whenever he does — a comforting, low thrum of warm desire, and then a shadow of Jason's _relief_ at the absence of pain — but because of the sheer _volume_ of power he now has at his command. He never knew precisely how backlashes worked; never cared to. Jason's magic seems endless, bottomless, and he knows that can't possibly be true and yet no matter how much he takes Jason never seems to weaken. It's… thrilling, in a way.

Jason's power outstrips what he once had by huge margins. He is not above saying that he enjoys having that much strength at his fingertips.

He does not actually know much about Jason himself though; most of their time in the sands has been spent in silence, or filled with meaningless back and forth as he experimented with precisely what he can do, or not do, with Jason's power. The latter list is very small, and seems to only depend on his physical proximity to his new partner. Jason seems less in tune with the connection between them than he does, but he's not entirely certain of that. He has had more practice focusing inwards and manipulating magic, true, but then he also now knows that Jason has spent his entire _life_ controlling the magic building eternally within him. Such practice can't have left him entirely blind to what magic's effects feel like.

He knows, at least, that Jason has picked up on using the connection between them to sense his presence, and on at least some of the emotional feedback as well.

As to the physical…

Well, he can only hope that Jason has not sensed how much desire has built in him over the course of their travel. Ever since their encounter in the healer's residence, and how very _good_ it felt, despite the shock of it, he has… wondered.

There is a level of physical feedback; he knows this. He can feel when Jason's magic is building to painful levels inside him, before it becomes a problem. He can feel the very faint burn of it inside his veins, which makes him wonder exactly how _much_ pain Jason is in just about all the time, if that much is transferring to him. So he wonders how it would feel — specifically how _good_ it would feel — if they were to engage in any more… sexual encounters. His experience with them is very limited in general, but he feels as though the one they shared was more intense than it had a right to be, naturally.

Would the pleasure feed itself; create a loop? If he ever dared to take a hand to himself one of these nights, would Jason feel it? Would it affect him too? Does he have the right to make that decision for the both of them, or is it simply a case of getting it over with?

He may not have much in the way of experience, since the risk of an unsanctioned heir was always present, and relationships with other males were forbidden to him since he _had_ to have that heir someday, but he still absolutely refuses to go the rest of his life without ever touching himself again. If this will be a problem, isn't it better if they know now? Or should he hold off for now, and wait until they're safely in his father's encampment before testing those waters?

It's not as if Jason can leave him, at least not without straining the bond between them tight and endangering them both, but perhaps he shouldn't risk the theoretically negative reaction until it's possible for them to at least attempt to avoid each other. A thing which cannot happen in travel, no matter how much they might want it.

He knows, in the back of his mind, that he should not even be considering what he is. Jason is many years older than him, is a freak, and though attractive is hardly the sort of person he should be interested in. Besides, he will still need heirs someday, won't he? If he is to be a prince, beneath his father? A large if, he admits. There is the possibility that his father will not want someone as crippled as he has become, no matter the workarounds that have been invented to allow him to be useful again.

However, he can remember with vivid clarity the feeling of Jason's breath against his throat, the press of a large hand against the small of his back, and the way that Jason's skin felt beneath his fingers, as he clawed at it. He may not know exactly what sex should be, but he knows that despite how very unplanned and, at the time, unwelcome it was, it did feel good. He enjoyed it, and still enjoys the thought of it, even without the reaction of taking Jason's magic fueling his desire.

Things to think about at later times. He certainly isn't going to make this decision while he's leaning on the outside of a building, among bunches of commoners, with Jason supposedly joining him any minute.

He stifles a yawn behind his hand, and then blinks, _stares_ at his hand. That was… not right. He isn't tired. It doesn't take that much effort to look inwards, focusing on the bond and dividing what he's feeling from what sensations he's getting from Jason. Lethargy, a very slight wariness, and... and something that feels very _wrong_. He doesn't know what it is, but it feels almost like passive acceptance, and he's very sure that Jason is _not_ feeling that. Something isn't right.

He pushes off the wall of the inn and heads for the door, hurrying a little as the wariness fades away, and he can feel the phantom clasp of weight against his shoulder, like a hand. Jason shouldn't be letting anyone near him. If he's recognized as a backlash, or a fugitive, or anyone takes offense to what he does... It's not safe for him to be interacting with anyone like that. Not in conjunction with what he's feeling.

He shoves the door open, not even caring that it will look as though it opened by itself, and hurries through. He picks Jason out almost immediately; taller than most other people in the room and standing. Flanked by two men, one of which has a hand on his back, and the other of which is carrying their bag. Jason's head is somewhat lowered, the hood of the cloak down but scarf still covering his hair, and when he catches a glimpse of Jason's eyes they're somewhat hazed. The men are guiding him away, towards the door and towards him, and he bares his teeth and thinks fast.

If he can just shock Jason back into awareness, then they can get out of here without making a mess. If not, he'll just have to get them away from Jason himself, and deal with whatever attention is drawn later on. He will _not_ let these men do… whatever it is that they're planning on doing.

He abandons caring for a moment, and reaches in to _yank_ a thread of magic out of Jason. He knows it will hurt, and Jason flinches and hisses between his teeth, pulling away from the men for a moment. The one with the hand on his back leans in, says something to him, and Jason looks down. He tugs again. _Harder_. One of Jason's hands goes to his chest, and then he can feel the sharp edge of fear as Jason's eyes widen, as he steps back from the man and knocks his hand aside. The man looks scared himself, for a second, and then steps in again. He can't hear what's said to Jason from across the room, but whatever it is does not work.

Then he realizes, with a slow sort of horror, that whatever is wrong with Jason is not _stopping_. Jason is afraid, he's _panicking_ , but whatever's made him slow, whatever's brought him off balance, is still affecting him. He can see the flicker of magic in Jason's eyes; he can _feel_ how Jason's control is slipping.

In a sharp flash, he remembers Jason's story of losing control. Remembers the self- _hatred_ that he could feel when those words came from Jason, when he revealed that he'd killed innocents. This inn is _full_ of innocents, and the two men trying to take — hurt, control, abduct? — Jason may deserve what they get for purposefully messing with something as notoriously unstable as a backlash, but the rest of these people don't. Jason will never forgive himself for allowing that to happen, no matter how little of it is actually his fault. He _will not_ let that kind of pain into their bond; he has enough to hate in his life without needing to feel Jason's emotions on top of it.

He draws Jason's magic — more carefully this time, without pain — and lashes out with it to knock the two men back and away from Jason. The flashes of red cause immediate shock from the other people in the room, even though they can't see him, and he runs forward through the stillness to get in front of Jason and grab his arms, to look up into his eyes. Jason isn't really focusing on him, and he knows, before he even gets the chance to say anything, that it's too late to fully stop this.

He drags a breath in, and leans around Jason to shout, " _Run!_ " at the rest of the people in the inn.

Maybe they don't fully understand, maybe none of them know what's going on, but it only takes one person to start a panic. One man runs, and then the crowd goes off of it, and suddenly everyone is heading for the door. Jason's eyes widen further, and he reaches up and grabs both sides of Jason's head, dragging his head down. He _feels_ it a moment before it happens; a building rush beneath his skin, the _burn_ of pain that doesn't belong to him.

Jason's eyes _light_ , and magic _bursts_ from him, slamming anyone unlucky enough to be close into the floor or the scattered tables. He expects to be thrown himself, but it passes harmlessly through him as though he's actually intangible as well as invisible, though he can feel the rushing heat of it. Jason arches back, eyes squeezing shut, and cries out. The burning isn't going away, it's not stopping; Jason's lost control and he has to be stopped _now_ , before this gets any worse.

He lets go of Jason's head, watches as his partner collapses to both knees, still arched tight like the string of a bow, and reaches inwards. He's taken magic from Jason before; he's sure he can control the outpouring now. He _can_.

Another burst from Jason's skin, and he reaches for it, twists it and tries to contain it. It slips from him though, not bending to his will as he wants it to, and he sucks in a sharp breath and quickly forces it out through one arm to _slam_ into the floor. Wood cracks, and he gets a moment to see the blackened scorch marks left behind before his attention is yanked back to Jason.

A yelp tears itself free from his throat as the burn beneath his skin brightens, like real _fire_ running through him. Jason _screams_ , and god he looks like some sort of demon. Red power leaking from his skin, jumping out in sharp sparks, out of control and he can already feel the building inside him once again. He knows, somehow, that this one is not going to _stop_. This isn't a wave, it's an explosion. This is what everyone fears from backlashes. This is _death_.

He can't stop it, he knows that as surely as he knows that this won't end until Jason either calms down or passes out, but he has to _try_. He _has_ to do this. If he can't stop it, then he has to contain it, he has to vent it. He has to make sure that Jason doesn't hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it.

He extends a hand and pushes Jason's scarf back from his head so he can curl fingers into his hair, closing his eyes and focusing on establishing that connection. He doesn't want to hurt Jason any further, but he needs to be connected enough to channel this. God, _if_ he can channel this much power without killing himself. (No time for 'if;' he _must_. There is no other option.)

Jason chokes, and he can feel the last thread of control snap. Then _power_.

It explodes, and he _screams_ in tandem with Jason as he forces it to come to him, _through_ him. It _burns_ like he's being eaten alive by it, as it nearly slips from his grasp and he almost collapses himself without any good having been done, but he forces his jaw to clench and his hand to tighten in Jason's hair instead. He twists his head, finds where the two would-be kidnappers are struggling back to their feet, and he _roars_ his rage at them as he flings his free hand in their direction.

He thinks they scream, but the slash of magic impacts so fast that he honestly doesn't know. They collapse — dead or unconscious, he doesn't know that either — and he throws another blast at them as he turns his head again, searching the rest of the room. It's more empty now, but there are still people getting to their feet, winded from Jason's first shockwave. He can't let any of the magic out towards them; he knows by the feel of it beneath his skin, by how it's filling him from scalp to toe, that it's _fatal_.

So he prays for a moment, and twists in a sharp circle, burning the wood on the floor around them in a rough circle. He can't possibly manage any sort of containment spell this late; the runes are too delicate for him to manage with this little control, but this might work well enough.

Shields are one of the most basic things to ever be taught, and he drags one into being now at the boundary of that circle, stretching it up until it reaches the ceiling, containing them in a hard red wall of power. He doubts _anyone_ could break the power that he's poured into that shield, and there's still _more_. Filling him, raking at his flesh and demanding to be released, as though it will turn on him if not immediately let go again. He imagines it probably _will_.

There's only one way to go now; not a good option, but there are no other ones available. He raises his other hand, and lets the power _scream_ out of him and straight up, blasting through the ceiling and into the sky. _Thanks_ whatever god he owes that the rooms on the inn are further back, built over the rest of the building. His back and neck arch as the power streams through him, all but using him as its conduit as it streams into the air. His knees give out, and his arms tremble but he forces himself to keep that connection open.

Jason is shaking, and he twists his head to the side, forces himself to breathe in deeply enough that he can demand, " _Control_ yourself!"

Jason's eyes are still wide, still hazed, but pained now too and _afraid_. He can feel the echo of all of that, and he wishes he could possibly get through the madness of the power he's guiding enough to heal Jason and force whatever has made him this way out of his system. He needs Jason in control of himself again; he needs this to end before the strain takes too much out of him. It will not matter how well he has mitigated the damage if they cannot escape the city when it is done. He needs to be able to walk, and _Jason_ needs to be able to actually leave with him as well. Not to mention that they'll need supplies they don't yet have.

"Damian," Jason starts, pained and breathless. "I— _Help_."

"I _am_ helping," he spits. "You must— must control yourself. You _can_ , I know it. You have spent your whole life controlling yourself, and you are not injured now. You have the will! _Do it!_ "

Jason trembles, pulls against the grip in his hair, and then squeezes his eyes shut and gives an agonized _keen_ towards the ceiling. But he can feel how Jason is pulling inwards, forcing the magic back deep within himself and wrapping around it again. Mostly, he can feel how much it _hurts_. No wonder backlashes rarely gain control again after they've lost it, if this is the kind of pain they have to deal with.

The power raging through him lessens, and his back falls out of the hard arch it was forced into as the magic lowers to levels that he can actually control again. He sinks the remainder into holding the shield steady as he lets his fingers uncurl from the tight grip in Jason's hair. His other arm lowers, and then he can feel the way the magic has left him stripped raw, and his strength gives out as he collapses to the floor. The impact isn't bad, but he has to swallow and just breathe for a minute, especially against the renewed surge of fear from Jason.

"I didn't—” Hands touch either side of his face, tilting it up. "Please be alright; _please_."

"I am tired, not dead," he grumbles. He blinks his eyes open, looking up, and Jason is pulling him up at the same time, off the floor to rest against his partner instead. He almost complains, but it does feel good to be somewhat vertical, so he just trusts his weight to Jason's chest instead.

"There's something wrong," Jason says, quiet and strained. "I— I think I was… drugged, or something. I'm— Something doesn't feel right."

"I can feel it as well," he agrees. "You were tired with no cause, and accepting. Whoever those men were, I imagine they were attempting to take you somewhere. If they felt the need to drug you, I imagine it was because you would not have gone with them if given the choice."

Jason shivers. "Are they—?"

"Dead," he answers. "At least I assume so. I struck them several times; I doubt they could have survived it." He can feel the curl of guilt, and he scoffs and pushes himself up and off of Jason. It's a little difficult to be straight, but he manages it. " _I_ killed them, not you. No one else was injured, at least not badly. I could have vented it all safely if I chose to but they _deserved_ it, and I refuse to feel guilt for it. You should not either. They were the cause of your loss of control; _they_ put everyone here at risk."

He nods as the guilt eases out of the feedback loop, and then struggles to his feet. That's nearly beyond his current capabilities, but he forces it. Jason stands easier, and then a moment later is looping an arm around his back, holding him up.

"We must go," he says, as he relaxes his iron grip on the shield and lets it fade into thin curls of red power that dissipate harmlessly into the air. "I scouted the surrounding area, as I said I would. If we move quickly, we can gather horses and supplies before the guard of the city arrives; it is too late for subtlety now."

“Yeah,” Jason agrees, “alright.”

“Back entrance,” he orders, “and cover your hair.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Alright, second to last chapter, here we go. Enjoy!
> 
> (These are just the first time these things happen; they might pop up again later.) This chapter is home to: Backrubs/Massages.

It’s a lucky break to confirm that his cloaking spell is still functional, if a little worn around the edges. He wishes they could split up, make this easier, but his hands refuse to stop trembling no matter how staunchly he ignores the fatigue settling into his bones, and Jason is still suffering the effects of whatever substance he was drugged with. He’s tired as well, slow to react, and clearly fighting whatever effect made him susceptible to getting up and leaving with complete strangers. Some form of enhanced receptiveness to suggestion, if he were to guess.

He would likely not make it far on his own without collapsing, and Jason could easily get led astray or distracted as he is. So although it’s much slower, they have to stick together to get out of the city.

The horses that he found before are useless to them now — too conspicuous to have missing horses and an explosion like this within the same hour — but he does lead Jason into residential areas and to a cart he found locked within a fence. Banking on the fact that few people would be dedicated enough to lift the weight of the cart over that fence, which would be true, except that the lock is simple enough to disable for someone of his skill.

The magic _hurts_ to use, but he pushes through. He will need rest to let his body recover from channeling far too much at once, but until that is a viable option he will simply have to continue on and do what he must, no matter the pain.

It’s out of the way enough that they raid the house as well, which is a good start, although not enough to last them the journey into the desert. He drags them through the two neighboring houses as well — to hell with subtlety; it’s clear enough they were here — before the supplies look good enough to last, and they can finally actually leave the city. The crowds on the streets are thick enough that it’s slow going, and he ends up simply climbing into the cart and amid the bags to avoid everyone who might run into him without even realizing he’s there.

It is worryingly difficult not to fall asleep, but he manages it by pushing close to the front of the small cart — where Jason is pulling it along — and watching past Jason to see what they’re coming up on. The crowds compact further as they get to the main gate of the city; a different one than the side entrance they came in by, so no guard will be remarking at a foreigner coming and going in the same day, plus an additional cart and supplies. It’s the same precaution they’ve used for every place thus far, and doubly important now.

However much of a scene they caused, it doesn’t seem to have spread to the outer gate yet. Or at least, there doesn’t seem to be any additional security. Jason passes right by one of the guards, offering a flicker of a smile and getting a nod in return, and they’re out of the city without a problem.

The road leading towards the distant mountains isn’t one that most people are heading out into, but Jason picks it without hesitation. It may be obvious, but it’s the best choice for now. They’ll have to abandon it later on, but trying to traverse the desert without the solidness of a beaten path will be trickier, and it’s best that they at least cut down on the amount of supplies they have first, so the cart is lighter and easier to pull through the sand.

They don’t make nearly as good time as he wants, but that is in no small part his own fault. He is moving significantly slower than Jason, and although he manages to make himself continue — minus two short breaks on which he nearly falls asleep — until the sun has left the sky, they have traveled no great distance. Jason mostly recovers from whatever he was drugged with, but his fatigue only grows greater with each step.

It’s Jason that eventually stops him, pulling him off the road and far enough into the sands that they can make camp. An easier thing, now that there is the solidity of the cart to put their bedrolls up against. Jason cooks while he sets the rest of the camp up, and though he only means to sit down, he is asleep long before the food is ever done.

He comes awake once at Jason’s insistence, a hand supporting his head and food pressed to his lips; some sort of meat and cheese concoction. He means to protest that he can feed himself, but his arms feel too weak to rise more than a few inches, and Jason’s presence is warm and comforting. So he leans into Jason’s side instead, eyes open just enough to watch the flickering of a faint fire as he is hand-fed bites of whatever it is that Jason has made. Were he less tired, he might spend more time figuring out what that is.

Then Jason eases him down onto his bedroll, and his eyes slip shut again. He almost falls asleep once more before there’s the brush of fabric against and over him, and a body pressing warm up against his. He stirs, blearily, and feels the heavy weight of an arm settle over his waist, and the hot brush of breath against the back of his neck.

“Easy,” Jason murmurs. “Get some rest, Dami. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go.”

It does feel… good, in a way. Solid, where he feels as though he may simply melt into the sand and disappear. He doesn’t know exactly how to process what Jason is giving, but he simply doesn’t have the focus or power to spare on trying right now.

It is not like he has a reason to distrust Jason.

* * *

When he wakes again it’s to a gentle hand on his shoulder, and the light of morning. Still early, but not dawn like they’ve usually set out at.

He blinks to consciousness, looking up at Jason, who’s settling down beside him, legs crossed. He’s holding a bowl of something, and a glance around proves the rest of the camp is already put away. The fire is out and hidden beneath sand, Jason’s bedroll is nowhere to be seen, and the supplies in the cart look put together and neat.

“Come on,” Jason says, “I’ve got breakfast for you, then we’ll head out.”

He blinks a few more times, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes, and asks, “Why did you not wake me earlier? To— To pack up camp, or—”

“You needed the rest,” Jason says, kind but firm in his interruption. “I know a thing or two about what it feels like to channel that much power, remember? I’m used to it; you’re not.” A hand reaches out, combing his hair back from his eyes, and he grumbles protest but doesn’t move away. “I think the fact that you didn’t even stir while I cooked, ate, and packed the camp says a lot, hm? Now come on; up.”

He starts to push himself up, and the entirety of his back cramps into one solid point of _pain_ , collapsing him the few inches he’d managed to rise. The breath leaves him and he gasps to replace it, slowly becoming aware of the fact that now that he’s moved, his body is vehemently protesting what he put it through yesterday. He aches, and he’s not positive whether that’s a step up or down from the trembling exhaustion of the day before.

At least he does not feel stripped raw anymore, even though he cannot seem to make himself move just yet.

A moment later there’s firm pressure against his back; thumbs, pressing in on either side of the uppermost portion of his back. He grits his teeth, gives a strained sound of pain, and suddenly there’s a low, comforting hum. The tune of a song vaguely familiar, without word or rhyme to force memory to connect.

“Slow,” Jason murmurs, breaking the song for only the moment it takes him to say it.

“I— I am perfectly capable of dealing with the aftereffects of channeling too much power,” he protests, but the thumbs digging into his upper back _do_ feel good, in a way. It’s painful, but he can feel how his muscle is giving beneath it, forced into something more like relaxation.

Jason doesn’t answer him, just rubs his thumbs in small, hard circles down the length of his spine. He can barely stand it, but at the same time he doesn’t even think to move away. He _does_ feel better when they’ve reached the small of his back, and his breath is coming easier. He still hurts, undeniably, and his back is far from loose, but it is marginally better than it was before Jason’s work.

The hands slide outward, and Jason carefully helps him sit up. That hurts too, but it’s still easier than trying to do it entirely on his own. Jason leans him against the cart — he winces but does not complain — and he takes the bowl offered to him on arms that are weaker, but no longer trembling. It’s a small collection of various foods, and he finds himself hungry enough that he almost does not mind eating without some form of utensil. Almost.

Jason’s humming finally stops, and he glances up to question it but finds Jason looking down at him, gaze studying. “Are you alright?” he gets asked, fairly softly.

He scoffs, swallowing the bite in his mouth and tilting his chin up. “I have been trained since I was a child, and learned how to withstand power beyond my capabilities. It is merely pain; it will pass.”

Jason makes an unconvinced sound, and then snorts. “Yeah, I guess you’re lucky that way.”

He pauses, slowly chewing his next bite. That raises some… implications he isn't sure he wants to think about. He knew, of course, that the level of magic in him caused Jason regular pain, and he can feel the faint burn of it most times, if he concentrates hard enough, but he didn't take that to mean that Jason actually was in pain like this _all the time_. That can't be right. Anyone in this level of pain all the time couldn't possibly function, let alone be as capable as Jason has proven to be. There has to be another explanation.

He finishes the food, hands it off to Jason, and then watches as his companion gets to his feet to store the bowl away among their things. He can't see any trace of pain in the other man's stance or stride, nor any real trace of the exhaustion that he knows was plaguing Jason yesterday. Not his level of fatigue, of course, but it was present. Both things seem entirely erased now. He tries to focus inwards on the bond, to figure out if Jason actually is in pain, but he can't get a grasp on it. His own pain blocks too much of the sensation for him to understand what Jason is feeling, unfortunately.

So, left with no alternative, he asks, "Are you in this sort of pain all the time? I did not think that it was this bad."

Jason stills, facing the cart. Then he can see the slow exhale, and the flicker of eyes as Jason closes them, brow furrowing. After a few moments of silence, there comes, "No, not quite. Not anymore. I haven't had pain as bad as what you’re in since you started drawing the excess out of me. But before that… I don't know, maybe it was that bad once a week or so? It's hard to remember that far back, and that specifically." Jason straightens, and then looks down at him. "But if what you're asking is if I'm always in pain, the answer is yes. You stop noticing, after a while. It's not that bad, relatively."

He can't even think what that must be like, and he must make a face that suggests it because Jason shakes his head and snorts, mouth drawing into a half-bitter smile.

"It's a lot better than it was; trust me. You grow up with something, generally it stops mattering." He's offered a hand, and then Jason seems to think better of it and crouches down to grab him under each arm and bodily help him up. He grunts, partly in protest because he can certainly _stand_ just fine, but Jason ignores him. "I've lived pain my whole life, Damian. I've lived through it so far; don't worry about me."

"You are dying," he points out, scowling a little at the realization that actually he may _not_ have been able to stand, and may not continue to stand if Jason lets go. "Who should I worry about if not you? Not that I _am_."

Jason gives him a look that tells him that his correction wasn't believed even a little. Also, he can feel the swell of amusement through their bond, even over the pain. "Well, I'm probably dying slower than I was, if that makes you feel any better. Come on, get on the cart and I'll pull you for awhile."

"I do not need—”

"Uh-huh. Get in the cart, Damian. We'll go faster and you won't collapse, so really it's winning all around. I don't mind."

He scowls a little more, glares, but Jason is unrelenting and unimpressed by his obstinance, so he huffs a breath out and acquiesces. Wordlessly. Jason seems to understand, because he's helped over to the back end of the cart, and then up among the things within it. He fights a bit with the sacks, to make them comfortable to lie upon, as Jason rolls up his bedroll and then packs it away next to him. The sacks are not the most comfortable thing, but he manages to get it at least somewhat suitable.

Jason heads to the front of the cart, pulling the handles up and getting between them to start pulling it back towards the road. It _is_ good to lie there instead of having to bear his own weight, at least for right now. Better than having to test exactly how far he can push his strained body anyway, and he… well, he imagines Jason knows that. Far better and more intimately than the taste he's getting now.

He can hardly fathom handling that much pain, that constantly. He has somewhat underestimated how very strong Jason is, even beyond the magical. To have the will to fight against pain like that for so long (and Jason did say that most backlashes don't live half his age, which implies that they have far less control over themselves and burn out much faster), and to survive and be capable on top of it all, would require a level of mental will power that he is… not positive he understands. Larger than his own, certainly, which is something he doesn't like to admit.

There is more to Jason than he knows, that much is clear. There's something that he is unaware of, and he imagines it is something important, but he finds himself… unwilling to press. Jason has saved his life on more than one occasion on this trip, has helped him despite his protests and despite his lack of verbal gratitude, and he doesn't really want to press for what has not been offered. He will find out eventually anyway, it is not as though Jason can hide whatever it is from him forever, bound as they are. Eventually, he'll find out.

"Damian?"

He tilts his head back, looking up at Jason's back. His companion hasn't turned around, isn't looking at him, but he knows that he has some of the man's attention at least. "Yes?"

There's a moment of quiet, almost enough for him to think that he imagined the utterance of his name. Then Jason's head tilts slightly back towards him, and there comes a quiet murmur of, "Thank you. For what you did back in the city. I know it wasn't easy, and you didn't have to— Sorry it came to that."

He can't see Jason's expression at this angle, but the tone of his voice and the echo of emotion down the bond tells him enough. Jason feels guilty, feels an echo of that self-hatred he remembers from before, and he shoves out a breath and pushes up a tiny bit. Just enough that he can turn his head and look up more comfortably, despite the low thrum of pain up the back of his neck from the strain.

"There is nothing to apologize for. It was not your fault; you were drugged with something, clearly. I needed you mobile, and if I had allowed you to simply burn yourself out I would have been stuck with your unconscious body. You are rather tall and heavy, if you hadn't noticed."

Jason snorts, and he can see the shake of a head. "Well, thanks anyway." Tension, another flicker of self-hatred, and the addition of, "Especially for channeling it safely. I— I don't ever want to be responsible for any more—”

"I know," he interrupts, with the same gentle firmness Jason used on him earlier. Jason falls silent, and he lets the silence stay for a few moments before he asks, "Do you know what it was the two of them wanted?"

A shrug, and they've reached the road now. He glances down it in either direction, but as far as he can see they're alone. Unsurprising, this isn't an easy or a popular direction to travel. Most people choose to take the path around this stretch of desert to get to the mountains, rather than going through it.

"Probably," Jason says, still quiet. "There are… The people that know what I am are usually the only ones that have specific drugs like that. You don't bother drugging someone like that if you don't think they're a serious threat; a hard blow to the head works just as well for a normal person. They knew I was a backlash, somehow, and wanted me alive."

"Why?" he prompts, when Jason doesn't continue.

He sucks in a breath through his teeth at the sharp bolt of fear that's _not_ his own, and has to squeeze his eyes shut and just breathe for a moment to quell it.

"It's illegal, obviously, but if you have the skill and the resources… Backlashes make good power sources; hook us up to something and we can run it for… Well, we can run it until we burn out, however long that takes. I've heard stories." The fear ebbs, and Jason shakes his head more noticeably. "I've never seen it happen, but we're pretty rare and most of us die young, so it's not like there's much opportunity. Still scary as hell to think that somewhere out there, people like me are hooked into spells to be the energy source."

"That sounds… unpleasant," he agrees, and rests his head more firmly against the bedroll he has tucked beneath it to support his neck. "Have you ever had something like that happen before?"

"No." He can hear how Jason inhales, slow and deep. "Or, maybe it's bounty hunters looking for the two of us; recognized me. Weird how that's almost the better option, huh?"

"Very strange." He closes his eyes for a moment against the sun, swallowing and wondering whether it's worth it to attempt to heal himself. Self-healing is unreliable at the best of times (concentration and absolute focus is a must, which is difficult when playing the role of both injured and healer, although it can sometimes be bypassed with pure intention), and to do it he would need to draw power from Jason. The thought of drawing power, of _using_ any, makes him wince. He does not particularly wish to test if he is recovered enough to use magic again without it hurting, given the state of his physical body.

"You can go ahead and sleep if you want to," Jason says, after a couple minutes of easy silence. "I've traveled further on my own; quiet doesn't bother me."

He clicks his tongue, but does not open his eyes. "What makes you think I want sleep?"

Jason scoffs, and points out, "Bond goes both ways; you're tired, I can feel it. Get some rest, let your body heal, and maybe when you're up again you'll feel better.”

“Maybe?”

“Well I’m not exactly going off of personal experience here, am I? Just get some rest, Dami.”

He knows Jason can feel the pulse of irritation, because he gets a snicker in response only a moment after he feels it. “Do not call me that; I do not need a nickname.”

“Nobody _needs_ a nickname,” Jason tells him. “Alright, _Damian_. Not until you’re back on your feet anyway.”

“Not at _all_ ,” he protests, but the words come out quiet, his mind slipping towards the comforting blackness.

“Uh-huh. Sure. Get some sleep, brat.”

* * *

They’re faster once Damian’s mobile again, and he can breathe a little sigh of relief that he hasn’t seriously hurt his… whatever the hell Damian is to him. Ward? Companion? Partner? It’s a weird sort of grey area and he doesn’t really want to ask.

On one hand, bound together, and Damian does seem to be warming up to him a little. On the other hand… well, he’s pretty thoroughly exhausted all the reasons why Damian would hate him. Strangely, none of them — him being what he is, the lives he’s taken (and Damian doesn’t even know about the people he’s killed who _weren’t_ innocent), and binding them together without Damian’s consent comes to mind — seems to be enough to actually stop Damian from starting to think of him in a less hostile way.

That’s what he’s getting out of their bond, anyway. Less anger now, and more moments of quiet gratitude that he pretends he doesn’t notice. God only knows what Damian’s getting from him in turn; he hasn’t asked and he’s not sure he wants to know. His head can be a minefield on the best of days, and these are, well, not the best of days. He’d like to think that he’s not giving Damian occasional snapshots of where his mind wanders, but given the now near-constant faint echoes of emotions that he gets from the bond, now that he’s paying more attention to it, he knows that would be lying to himself.

He supposes he should be glad that Damian doesn’t seem to care about any of his issues, at least not enough to call him out on them. He honestly doesn’t know if it’s because of some sense of tact, or just that Damian legitimately doesn’t care, and he’s not sure he wants to find that out either.

Things are going to be interesting when they get to Bruce, that’s for sure. That’ll be the end of hiding that he knows Bruce, as well as hiding what he actually is. Not just that he’s a backlash, but his whole role in the rebellion.

He wishes he had some frame of reference for how Damian might react to that.

He does wonder whether Damian has actually noticed that he hasn't asked for guidance, or where they're going, but he lets it go. Everything will come out soon enough.

Damian's the one to direct him off of the beaten path, into the sands, when they're maybe a day away from the base of the mountains. He would have chosen to go off of it just a little bit later, personally, but then Damian doesn't know where the base actually is and he does. Stepping out into the sands about half a day early is hardly a bad thing; Bruce's patrols are regular enough that one of them will pick them up before long. Not that Damian knows that either.

It's when they're a day into the sands, traveling parallel to the mountains and edging closer with each hour, that things start to crash down around them.

He glances back, and there's movement in the sands. Hidden mostly behind a dune, but he's spent his whole _life_ running and evading hostility, and his eyes catch on the edges of the sand that's been kicked up, and the little flashes of abrupt movement that doesn't fit in with how sand normally shifts. He pauses, watching carefully, and instinct rises even before he catches another glimpse of the movement and he's really sure he didn't just imagine something.

"Jason?"

He tilts his head a little to listen to Damian's questioning call of his name, and then the dune ends, and the movement is no longer hidden. Horses, riders, and those are _not_ Bruce's people.

"Run!" he shouts, as he jerks back and reaches into the cart, grabbing a single sack and then shoving at Damian's shoulder to make him let go of the handle he's still holding. "Go!"

Damian doesn't question, just glances past him at the riders and then _runs_. He follows at his heels, pushing Damian in a line right for the mountain. They're not going to make it, and he knows that even before he glances back and finds the riders maybe ten minutes away from them at most, at current pace, but they have to try. It hurts like a _bitch_ , but he reaches inside himself and grabs hold of his magic, flinging it up into the air in a burst of red power that arcs high into the air. Bright and visible.

He gets a sharp burst of shock from Damian for it, and an incredulous look, but Damian doesn't have the air to question him and he doesn't use his own to offer an explanation.

Bruce's patrols are regular, and his lookouts are constant. Signal flares; to draw patrols down on them and maybe get whoever has tracked them down off their back. Or at least get some _help_. He doesn't know exactly how good Damian is, but six people who are undoubtedly highly trained is out of his league. Unless he can surprise them anyway, and that's not going to happen. Anyone who is coming after them like this knows what he is and some of what he's capable of.

The mountains are visibly closer when he yanks Damian to a stop and spins them both around to face the riders that are almost on top of them. There's no point in going further.

"Your cloaking spell?" he asks, pressing close to Damian's side and drawing the knives he kept from all the way back at the prison. (It feels like such a long time ago, now.)

"I disabled it," Damian answers, sounding a bit breathless. "Useless with the tracks in the sand anyway." He feels the little twist in his chest, and the echo of warm magic thrumming down through arms that aren't his. "Those are al Ghul trackers; they must have gotten our scent in the city. This will not be easy."

"You still sound confident," he points out, and Damian gives a sharp scoff.

"I am not so helpless as to be taken by my previous grandfather's hunting dogs. Let them come." Damian's shoulder presses to his, and then the riders crest the last dune between them and rage down, and Damian offers, "It has been… an adventure, to be beside you. Thank you for your assistance, Jason."

He gives a sharp laugh. "Adventure's a good word. Put a lot of effort into getting you here; don't die on me yet, Damian."

"I would not _dream_ of it."

The magic comes first, bursts of light slicing ahead of the riders and towards them. He just _knows_ as Damian moves, and he raises his hands, twists them and the shield that's definitely not his blooms into place ahead of him. Damian is pressed close to him, hiding the true source of the magic. It's his color, and he's making the movements; why wouldn't it be his? He moves in tandem with Damian as the first of the riders gallops past them, flinging his other arm out and _just_ beneath it comes the surge of magic.

It clips one leg of the horse and it screams as it falls, toppling the white-cloaked tracker to the ground. But then the rest of them are on top of them. He can still feel that connection with Damian, but their actions split. The shield drops, and he lunges forward through the last traces of it and slashes out with one knife. It carves a slice into the passing chest of a second horse, and the shriek of pain that accompanies that makes him wince, but it doesn't do any real damage.

He hears a cry of shock from behind him, grins, but doesn't need to look back to know that Damian has just shown that he still has serious teeth. He can feel the pull on his magic, feel how it's sliding out of him smooth and easy and, more distantly, the shape of it as it's used.

He trades swipes with another rider, dancing as best he can around the horse and nicking it as often as he aims his knives towards the actual rider. Dodging the magic aimed at him is second nature after so much practice, and the blade the rider is wielding is slightly harder, but still nothing that he can't manage. At least until a second rider comes in at him and he finds himself caught between them, circled by bared steel and sharp hooves that make it difficult to try and escape. The horses are _not happy_ , but they're trained and instead of running from his blades they lash out at him with hooves and teeth on the command of their masters, further boxing him in.

Until he feels the _swell_ of power pulled from him, and a blast of magic knocks one rider from his saddle and into the sands. He jumps out of the circle in the brief confusion, and instinct more than sight sends him running back to Damian's side.

One rider is down; motionless and bleeding. Another three, including the one Damian just knocked down, are off their horses and looking maybe a little worse for wear. That just leaves two still on their horses, and one of those horses is the one that is bleeding from the bites of his blade. Still a threat; until the last of them is down and at least unconsciousness, they're all threats.

The man on the bleeding horse reins it in as they press back to back, glaring down at them. "Both of you are to be brought back to the Emperor," the man snarls. "Come quietly and you will be left alive to face trial. Struggle and we have been given leave to bring back only proof of your demise. You have only one chance to agree."

He trades a small glance with Damian, sees and feels the utter refusal there, and gives a sharp grin.

“No,” he says simply, shifting his grip on his blades, “I don’t think so.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, last chapter. Here we go! Enjoy!
> 
> (Themes for this last chapter are: Accept Injury to Protect Someone, Toothache, and Falling.)

The reaction to his words is, literally, explosive.

Magic flies, and only a lifetime of practice avoiding it lets him slip in and underneath it, using the cover to get closer to the rider who’d spoken; one of the two still on a horse. Neutralize that advantage first, then work on dealing with them in close quarters, hand to hand. Being that close lets him stop most of the easy spells that can be cast, and most people rely too heavily on their magic to deal with him.

Most people.

Damian takes a very different approach, and he can feel the draw on his magic as Damian blocks and retaliates with it, using the combination of his greater strength and the trained skill of a prince to their advantage. He can feel the satisfaction that Damian takes from whatever he's accomplished, and lets that drive him forward. The rider he's facing down is frustratingly good, and the horse gives that slight advantage and makes taking him down more of a project than he wanted it to be.

It's not really what he wanted to resort to, but he can't spend too much time locked into a fight with this one guy and just leave Damian to deal with the rest of them. So he spins in close, reaches in, and shoves out a burst of his magic through the blade of the knife still in his hand. It _hurts_ , but it catches the rider completely off guard and knocks him off the horse, which is all he needs. A shout and a slice to the haunches sends the horse careening away with a shriek, and he advances on the downed tracker before he can catch his breath.

The white cloak is smoldering a bit, but the rider is already starting to rise, so he doesn't waste time trying to actually reach him. He flings one of his knives, and it sinks into the side of the man's throat and topples him down again. Not dead, not yet, but almost no one can focus enough to cast while they choke on their own blood; these guys are good, but not that good. He sprints forward and yanks his knife out, twisting it as he does to widen the gash before he spins to find his next opponent.

It's already been chosen for him.

The last tracker on horseback is almost on top of him, sword swinging out and towards his throat as he gallops past. He throws himself to the side, and the sword catches the outside of his arm instead of his throat, carving into his skin in a way that's painful, but nowhere near the fatal strike it was supposed to be. It still draws a hiss from between his teeth, as he's getting back up from the ground and turning to face his attacker, but it's not serious.

The horse turns, heading back for him still at full speed, which gives him about three seconds to come up with a plan. Swinging sword, guarded leg… Well, then go for the _horse_. It still feels cruel to hurt an animal just for being unfortunate enough to have an enemy of his on its back, but he's not willing to ignore a tactical advantage just for the sake of not hurting the horse. He'll deal with the minor guilt of it later.

He holds his ground until the last moment, and then throws himself backwards to the sand as he flings an arm out to rake his knife across the horse's closest leg. The sword whistles over his head, his knife is jerked from his hand as it sticks in the meat of the horse, and it screams as the leg collapses underneath it, sending it rolling. There's a definitive _crack_ from something as it tumbles, and he rolls back to his feet, stealing a glance at Damian — diving between two of the remaining riders, power blazing at his fingertips in bursts of what looks like electricity — before he darts after the tumbled horse. Its rider is pinned beneath it, looks mostly motionless whereas the horse is definitely _not_ , so he retrieves his knife from where it’s been knocked loose and into the sands first.

He's careful to circle the horse as it struggles to rise, so he can get to the rider without getting kicked. The man looks unconscious at the least — which might explain the 'crack' — but best to be certain anyway; it would be pretty bad to have one of the supposedly taken care of trackers come at them from behind, without warning.

He crouches down, bringing one arm up to fit his knife against the man's throat—

And then suddenly _movement_. He jerks, but the rider is twisting, scratching his own throat open on the blade but swinging for his head with the steel of the sword he didn't see before. It _slams_ into the side of his head, flat side cracking across bone and sending him crashing down into the sand, his head spinning. He can feel the burst of panic not entirely his own, the anger, and he breathes in and blinks, trying to clear the spots from his vision as he tries and fails to rise.

The dizziness slumps him back down, and he inhales and then coughs out sand, curling his fingers into the warmth of it to try and stabilize. He can hear shouting, hear the sizzle of magic, and then there's a _sharp_ pain at the back of his skull. He jerks up, vision spinning but his arms holding as he gets to hands and knees and then looks up to find who struck him.

No one. It takes another couple moments for him to realize the pain wasn't _his_.

He swings his head around, finding Damian lying in the sand and his attackers circling him. The bond in his chest is silent, unresponsive. A sword rises, and he feels a wordless shout of anger and denial bubble up his throat as he jerks forwards, instinctively reaching inwards and throwing out a burst of raw _power_ at them. It _burns_ , takes his breath, but knocks them away from Damian's sprawled form.

He staggers to Damian's side, collapsing to his knees and reaching forward to find a pulse at the side of that too-vulnerable throat. Steady; strong.

The remaining trackers are coming at them, he can see the blooms of magic as they cast... something at him, and instinct takes over again. His arms rise, fingers twisting and then shoving outwards. Power slices through him, blazing across the nerves in his arms, but it comes out from his fingertips and does what he wants it to, circling into a crackling, powerful shield around the two of them. Everything of the world outside the bubble tints red, and he feels more than sees the impact of magic against it, and then the grating slash of steel.

His gaze rests on Damian as he swallows, pushing more power into his shield and _god_ how it hurts, how it sets him on _fire_ from within, but he _won't_ let it drop, won't let Damian die here just because he was born wrong and can't hold something as simple as a shield. He hits the ground on his side as his muscles give out, and forces himself to roll to his back instead. Palms extended, energy still streaming from them to reinforce the shield against the now constant attacks directed against it.

The power being buffeted against his is nothing, really. Insignificant against the flat out strength he has, if only that strength didn't cost him so much to use. He shakes, his vision still blurry from the blow to the head, the pain becoming the very center of his being, the only thing he can focus on. How he can _feel_ nerves being stripped raw beneath it, feel how it’s hollowing him out inch by bloody inch as he refuses to let go. It's _killing_ him, and he's so intimately, brightly aware of that.

This is how backlashes burn out, but never on purpose like this. Never willingly.

His back draws into a sharp arch, bringing itself off the ground, and his head falls back against the sand as he screams. The outburst doesn't help even a little, and he can feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, leaking down into his hairline as his body seizes, muscles jerking beyond his control. His vision tunnels, till he can only see that shield of red, and his hearing is fading too, the sounds reflected in them getting dimmer, more distant.

The shield flickers. _No_.

He grits his teeth, focuses as much as he can on the purely physical, aching pain of that and pours his will into that shield. Damian will _not die_ on his watch; not if he has even a fraction of energy left to spare to stop it. Not until he's spent every bit of himself and can't hold onto consciousness any longer.

It's closer than he'd like. His vision is blacking out in short bursts, and every moment makes it harder to think of anything but the pain, and those sharp little sensations that stand out to him. Warm wetness tracking down from his eyes; the taste of blood, heavy on his tongue; and the way his chest feels compressed, _tight_. Dying.

His hand falls, the shield goes too, and blackness takes over the rest of his senses.

\-----------

He doesn't expect to wake again.

Consciousness comes in fits and starts. The sensation of being lifted, his world spinning dizzily. Warm pressure against the side of his jaw, like fingers. Brilliant blue eyes looking down at him, as he's jostled into movement again. All bits that he has no context for, no framework, and gone against just as suddenly as he experiences them.

Then it comes slower, dragging up through his mind like fighting to get out of quicksand. And just like it, the thing that drags him from the pit is the warmth of a presence beside him, light pressure resting on the front of his shoulder. He blinks his eyes open, squinting at the light and then releasing a weak groan as the muscles all along the left side of his face ache in concert. There's an immediate reaction, the presence beside him leaning in and over him, until Damian's face comes into blurry focus a few feet away.

"Jason," is breathed down at him, and he can feel the sharp relief, even if Damian immediately scoffs and glares down at him. "You have been unconscious for almost fourteen hours, during which I have not been allowed to leave this room. It is good to see that you did not sacrifice _all_ of your health in your foolish maneuver."

A quiet laugh rips itself from his throat, and then he exhales shakily, managing to lift his arm the few inches necessary to let his fingers drop back down onto what he assumes is Damian's thigh. "You're… alive," he manages, although his voice comes out rough and low; weak and hoarse at the same time. "Worth it."

Damian's fingers squeeze briefly at his shoulder, and it aches enough to make him hiss between his teeth. He's instantaneously let go, and Damian's hand hovers awkwardly above him, trembling faintly. His vision is clearing up some, sharpening, and he can actually see that faint tremble now but he doesn't comment on it. Like he's not going to comment on the maelstrom of fear, guilt, and relief echoing into his chest. That's not his to point out.

"You could have killed yourself," Damian points out, sharper. "They tell me that you almost did. If you were not quite so hardy, and we were not connected, you would have died."

"Didn't though," he counters, then breathes out — it comes easier this time — and adds, "Were going to kill us anyway. Didn't matter."

Damian snarls, and he twitches at the sharp burst of anger that steals what little breath he has. "It matters to _me_ , you stupid, foolish, self-sacrificial—”

He squeezes Damian's thigh, and the tirade cuts off as Damian takes a sharp breath in. He reaches up, fingers shaking a bit but he manages to get it high enough to brush his fingers across Damian's jaw, and then slide his fingers through Damian's hair and get a loose grip. Damian's expression wavers, and then those jade eyes jerk up, looking elsewhere in the room, avoiding his gaze. A hand closes around his upper arm, and then Damian's other hand lifts to rest over his stomach, curling to grip a tight fistful of his clothing.

He can feel the emotional pain, the shock, and he tugs Damian down as insistently as he can manage. There's resistance for a moment, but then Damian folds, allowing himself to be pulled down close to his chest, head against his shoulder. He lifts his other arm and lets it drape over Damian's back, closing his eyes for a second and just breathing slow and steady. Damian shivers.

"Sorry I scared you," he says quietly, tilting his head down towards the top of Damian's.

There's a slightly unsteady scoff, followed by, "I was not frightened."

"Of course not." He strokes his fingers across Damian's scalp, letting himself actually check in with the rest of his body as his partner breathes against his shoulder.

He aches from head to toe, particularly badly at the side of his face where he remembers being struck, and he feels hollow; drained. A little bit like someone scraped everything out of him with a dull knife, which is not an altogether unfamiliar feeling, and nothing he can't handle for now. He'll recover. Damian isn't really hurt, and that's the important part. He's dying anyway, so why does it matter if he speeds that up a little bit? Damian's bought him extra time already by drawing out his excess; given him _so much_ , so why wouldn't he sacrifice that again? He promised to get Damian here, no matter what. And he has.

Damian shifts, and then comments, "This is a highly uncomfortable angle to be held at," against his shoulder. He snorts, winces at the muscle movement, and then lets go of Damian's hair. He watches as Damian pushes back up, shrugging off his other arm and resuming his straight, collected position. "Do you think you are capable of standing?"

He winces again, but gives a brief nod. "Yeah, if it's slow."

"Good. I was told to inform the guard outside the door when you awakened, so we can be brought to…” A pause, and Damian swallows; he can feel the trepidation. "To my father."

"It'll be fine," he comforts. "Do they know who you are yet?"

A sharp shake, and Damian meets his eyes for a brief moment. "No. I believe I may have been recognized as an al Ghul, but I did not offer my name or information, yet. I am… I do not know if I will be accepted. It is not as if my father knows of my existence, or chose to have me."

He pushes up, ignoring how his body protests as he forces himself up to sitting. "Damian, _hey_. He'll accept you. Even if you want to be totally pragmatic about it, which I'd guarantee he's not, you're useful to him."

"How is that?" Damian asks, sharp and direct. "Accepted or not, I will still be sealed; I will still be _crippled_. I hardly know how to live without the power I could once command, and now I am little use without it. An average soldier, at best." He watches as Damian takes in another deep breath, and catches how it shakes at the end of the exhale. "I have spent my whole life hearing of my father in secreted whispers, told behind curtains and only by my mother's voice. He is a powerful, practical leader, and he will not want me. Not like this. Not when my only claim to strength is that I have stolen the ability to use _yours_."

Fuck.

Well, it's not like the cat's not about to come flying out of the bag anyway. "Yes he will. I promise, Damian."

"How can you speak of my father with more certainty than I can?" Damian demands, with a sharp glance that includes more than a bit of a glare.

He takes in a slow breath, and then admits, "Because I know him. Well, knew him." Shock, then a little thread of anger, and he meets Damian's eyes and raises the eyebrow that hurts less. "Give me ten seconds to explain before you get pissed, alright? Bruce… He took me in as a kid. A stupid, angry kid that could barely get touched without flinging someone across a room. I had _so_ little control and he… It didn't matter. He took me in anyway. Helped me. He's the only reason I'm still alive, really. The only reason I didn't burn out years ago like every other backlash."

Damian's breath is loud in the otherwise silent room, and he can hear the little hitch in it before, "You… You were raised by my father?"

"Well… not exactly, but close enough. I was thirteen when he picked me up. He trained me, made sure I had a real education, and I decided to work for him." A small shrug, and he looks down at his own legs. "Backlashes are always traveling; no one bats an eye at them going in and out of cities, and I already knew how to survive by myself. Until the… the incident in your city — Ra's' city — I was a spy. I'd travel, gather whatever information was useful, and bring it back."

"That does make sense of your—” Damian pauses, squints, and finally decides on, " _Unique_ collection of skills. I wondered." He gives a nod, confirming it, and then Damian asks, "I assume that no one in my previous family knew this?"

That drags a laugh out of his throat, before he shakes his head. "Oh hell no. If Ra's knew, I would never have just been left to sit in a cell. I was really careful not to give too much away to any of the guards, or the prisoners that came through sometimes. I let them assume that I just liked to be in shape, and no one ever questioned it. I was lucky, honestly."

Damian gives a hum of agreement. "My former grandfather would have stripped the flesh from your bones if he believed you had real information about the rebellion."

He winces. "That's… That's a lovely thought. Thanks."

There's a pause, a moment where Damian studies the floor, and then his companion looks over at him, something firm to the set of his expression. "I understand why you did not share that with me," Damian offers, quiet but firm. "I would not have either, if I were in your position. And…” Damian turns away again, refuses to look at him. "Thank you, for your assurance."

He lifts a hand, pulling Damian's head over to his shoulder again. There's no resistance this time. "He might be an ass for a bit, but that's just cause he's bad with the whole emotional side of things, sometimes. He won't mean it, so don't take it to heart. Even if you weren't his son, he'd still take you in, and the fact that you are? Once he gets over the shock, he'll be thrilled."

"I'm sure."

An unsteady breath, and then he can feel the hard knot in his chest of tension not his own ease, replaced with more general worry, relief, traces of fear… "Very well," Damian murmurs, and then pulls away from his hand and slips off the bed he's been lying on. A hand is offered, and he takes it. Damian seems to take his words to heart, because although the pull to his feet is firm, it is done slowly enough that his head only swims a little bit. Damian lingers long enough to — apparently — be sure that he's not going to fall over and then heads for a door on the opposite side of the room and knocks against it.

He crosses the room as Damian steps back again, allowing the door to open into the room, followed by a female guard that looks somewhat wary. Less wary, once he's been spotted.

"Follow me," the guard orders. He doesn't recognize this one, but then he imagines that there have been new recruits since his imprisonment. At the least, the woman seems to know who he is, or at least was told who he is. One of the two.

Damian steps in beside him, glancing at him as though he thinks he might fall over at any moment. Which is maybe not as unfounded of a fear as it could be, but still. He knows the limits of his own body better than anyone else, and just because whatever feedback Damian is getting from him must be fairly bad doesn't mean that he's suddenly lost that knowledge. He knows how much he can take. Still, the only emotion he's getting from Damian that seems to be directly related to him is some sort of quiet cautiousness.

Although it's quickly followed by, "Why were you not healed while you were unconscious? Surely they trust you at least, if not me." Damian's voice is quiet, meant for the two of them, but the guard leading them probably hears as well.

He offers a small shrug. "I… don't react well to other magic touching me when I'm asleep. It's an automatic thing; I tend to lash out and… people get hurt. Even when I'm pretty firmly out, like this time, there's a solid risk."

"I can draw your magic while you sleep without reaction," Damian points out, and he gives a short laugh.

"Well, that's not _other_ magic, is it? You're not doing anything _to_ me, anyway, you're just pulling the power from me. It's different, apparently."

Damian doesn't seem entirely pleased by the answer, but then the guard is pushing through a pair of double doors that he recognizes, and his companion falls silent in the face of the new room. The war-table in the middle of the room is scattered with papers that almost obscure the map beneath, and there's a cluster of people around it. All of which look up as the door opens, a hush silencing whatever conversation was happening. Damian falls back half a step behind him, and he stops paying attention to the guard entirely as the man on the other side of the table — a full head taller than any of the others — straightens up and looks at him.

Bruce.

There's a moment of stillness, and then Bruce moves forward, around the table and past the other people at it. He swallows, nerves digging into his stomach and he _honestly_ doesn't know whether they're his or Damian's. He just knows that suddenly he's worried about what the reaction might be to his disappearance; his _years_ of silence. Worried that maybe his place with Bruce isn't as secure as it was, now that he's led trackers to his doorstep, now that he's showed up with some random other person and—

"Jason," Bruce says, and there's sharp pain to his voice. Then, before he can answer, before he can even think of what to say, Bruce steps forward and wraps arms around him, all but yanking him into a hug.

He's stiff, and aching, and it _hurts_ , but he shoves all of that aside to hug back, burying his face into Bruce's shoulder and clinging to the black fabric covering his back. One of Bruce's hands cups the back of his skull, fingers tangling in his hair, and he trembles a little, muffling a sharp exhale into the muscle of maybe the only person he's ever interacted with that's actually _bigger_ than him. The only person that was never afraid to touch him, even when it got him hit with stray power and slammed into walls or floors.

" _Bruce_ ," he manages, and then Bruce squeezes tighter and it cuts off into a small gasp.

Bruce keeps him in the hug for a few moments longer, and then finally lets him go except to grip his upper arms, holding him at arm's length so he can be studied by those familiar, narrowed blue eyes. "You're alive," Bruce says, soft and almost unbelieving. "There was no contact, no news, and I— _we_ thought…” A pause, a very faint tremor, and then Bruce demands, "Where have you been?"

He exhales, and carefully — reluctantly — pulls free of Bruce's grip. "Long story; I'll catch you up later. For right now, I've got something more important to tell you." Bruce's eyes narrow a touch further as he turns, holding a hand out to Damian, who's stiff and straight, but lets himself be pulled forward. "Bruce, this is Damian. Your son."

Bruce is utterly still, even as the people still at the table actually react, staring with wide eyes. He lets go of Damian's hand, presses it to the middle of his back in solidarity instead. Bruce is studying Damian, and he knows without having to ask what Bruce can see. The same shade of eyes as Talia, the same black hair as him, similar angles to his face and in how he carries himself, softened by Talia's influence and youth, but no less recognizable for it. He's been staring at that resemblance for the whole journey.

"Talia?" Bruce asks shortly, of Damian.

"Yes," Damian answers, equally short.

"You're an al Ghul then?"

He feels the sharp pang of pain even before the last syllable leaves Bruce's mouth, and Damian straightens an inch further, reaches up and bluntly pulls the collar of his shirt down to show the patterns of the healed brands. He can see how Bruce's gaze sharpens a little, feel the tension in the room ratchet up another notch.

"No longer," Damian answers, loud enough for probably the whole room to hear. _He_ can feel the nerves in his companion, but there's no trace of it in his expression or his stance. "I was framed for a murder I did not commit, and stripped of my family name and title. If you are willing to take me into your ranks, I know enough information about my former grandfather's empire to bring it to its knees. In exchange for position and security, of course."

Bruce's face is as impressively masked as his son's, and they stare each other down, neither giving in, neither showing even a fraction of weakness.

Finally, Bruce's head tilts about an inch to one side, and his mouth parts to say, "I'll need—”

"Time to think about it," he cuts Bruce off with, and gets two similar pairs of eyes snapping to him. He holds Bruce's. "You're going to wait and hear my story, and his, and _then_ you're going to pick what you're doing. Alright?"

The silence is too long to be anything but slightly awkward, as Bruce studies him too, with a new sort of sharpness. "Agreed," is the eventual verdict. "I'm in the middle of something; later?"

Again, he has no idea if the tension in him is actually his, or Damian's. Either way, it eases with the offer. "Yeah," he says, with a nod, and then a wince. "Take your time; I could use… a bath. And like a week of sleep."

Bruce's expression softens just a fraction, gaze fixing on the probably nasty bruises on the side of his face for a moment. "Go get some rest; your room is still where it was. Damian, for now you'll—”

"Come with me," he interrupts, and he can tell that he's irritating Bruce a bit by cutting him off, but he holds his ground. "Damian comes with me; I'll keep an eye on him, Bruce. I know you don't know him yet, but trust me at least."

Another slight softening. "Of course I do," Bruce says, quieter. "Very well." He turns to the female guard that brought them here originally, and orders, "Escort them; I don't want any misunderstandings with any of the other recruits. Damian is… under our protection, at least until I have time to make a decision."

"Yes, sir," she says, head bowing in obedience.

Bruce nods to him, and is about to turn away before he asks, "Wait; Dick?"

A tiny flicker at one corner of Bruce's mouth. "He's the one that brought you in; he'll be sleeping now, but he should be up again in a couple hours. I'll make sure he knows you're alright."

He lowers his head for a second in gratitude, and then turns away and heads for the door, guiding Damian with the hand at the center of his back. The guard follows, but he leads the way through the base. Things haven't changed much from back when this was his home, and he uses that familiarity to navigate the rough rock corridors with confidence.

"Who's Dick?" Damian asks after a couple minutes, as they wind deeper in and towards the personal quarters.

"Old friend," he answers. "Closest thing to a brother that I have, I guess. He was the first person Bruce took in, just after this whole resistance started. I was years later, but I was the second. There's a third too; Tim. We're… rockier, and he's rarely actually here." Damian clicks his tongue, and he scoffs at the echo of resentment he can feel deep in his gut. "Knock that off, Damian. It'll be fine; promise."

A small roll of Damian's eyes, but he doesn't argue the point. Which is good, because a couple seconds later his door comes into view, and he leads Damian to it and pushes it open to let them through. Shoots the guard still following them an unyielding smile, and closes it in her face. The room _is_ basically just like he left it when he last left on one of his information-gathering trips, except that it looks like someone's cleaned very recently, probably since the news got out that he was back. That brings a crooked smile to his face for a fraction of a second, before he refocuses on the important part of this.

He steps up behind Damian, putting a careful hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. "You alright?"

"I am fine in comparison to you," is the sharp response. Then Damian's head dips a little, and he comments, "Thrilled, hm?"

"I think I said 'give him time,' actually." He tugs Damian over to the bed, pulling him to sit down, and then in against his side so he can wrap an arm around his shoulders. "He's leading basically the only organized rebellion against an empire that's spanned centuries; give him some time to get over the shock, and let him make sure that you're not a spy or anything. He goes stiff when he doesn't know what to do with what he's feeling." He nudges Damian with his other hand, and adds, "Sorta like you."

Damian scoffs, but doesn't draw away and he can feel the mess of echoing emotions start to fade some. "I do not do that."

"Uh-huh."

He shifts, winces at the complaint of… basically everything, and Damian turns to look at him critically. He sighs, already knowing that he can't hide just how tired, and sore, and coming to the end of his rope he is from someone who gets feedback of all of it. Damian scowls at the side of his head, huffs a breath, and rolls a shoulder to drop his arm off the top of them.

"Here; hold still so I can heal you." He does, and Damian turns to face him, hands up, and then pauses. "Would your head be the worst of it? The sensations I'm getting seem to say so."

He snorts. "Well, it's a hell of a toothache, sure. Sword to the head will do that to you."

Damian's fingers come up, and he feels the twist of his chest a moment before red warmth slides across his jaw, and up along the side of his head. Damian frowns. "I am not surprised. It feels as though it loosened several of your back molars, along with the bruising and such. I do not believe it is anything beyond what I can deal with." The fingers firm, cupping his jaw, before Damian's other hand presses to the center of his chest. "I will be as careful as I can, but if anything hurts, or feels wrong, inform me. I am trained in healing but it is not one of my areas of expertise."

"Just the rest of magic then?" he asks, but the warmth sliding into his skin is bringing relief, and his question ends in a quiet groan instead of the teasing tone he was trying for. His eyes shut, and he wants to lean into Damian's hands but he keeps himself straight instead, as requested. The warmth spreads beneath his skin, and he can feel his muscles easing, feel the crick of bones settling back from where they've twisted slightly out of place. Feel his _teeth_ settling firmly back into place which is a tiny bit weird.

He drifts for a bit, under that feeling, until finally Damian's hand pulls away from his chest, and that prompts him to blink his eyes open.

"Better?" Damian asks, and he shifts a little bit and then nods.

"Yeah, _much_. Thank you." His voice comes out low and soft, and he tilts his head into Damian's hand without thinking about it. It isn't until Damian's thumb slides over his cheek that he really notices, and looks back up at Damian.

Damian's gaze meets his, holds it, and then leans forward and up. His eyes drift closed again as warm lips brush over his. Just for a moment. He chases them for a fraction of a second after that before remembering himself, and opening his eyes to look at Damian. Damian who's drawing away, looking somewhat guilty. And yet, the hand on his face is still there.

"I do not know if you—”

"I do," he offers in reassurance, and reaches up, clasping the back of Damian's hand so he can turn and kiss the palm. Damian shivers.

"I— I have not ever… This is not something I have experience in." He can feel how embarrassed that makes Damian, and he squeezes the hand he's holding and then meets Damian's gaze.

"Neither do I," he admits. Surprise, and he gives a small shrug. "People don't want to touch backlashes."

A frown, and Damian scoffs, chin tilting up a bit. "Most people are fools; I am not afraid of you."

His mouth curls into a small smile, and he gives a soft laugh. "So then… maybe we can do this without all the uh, magic-charged aggression? Actually being willing this time?"

Damian doesn't quite smile, but one corner of his mouth flickers up for a moment. "I would be amenable to that."

"Good," he murmurs, and leans back in.


End file.
